


Pendragon

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia Merlin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur cares about Merlin he's just bad at showing it sometimes, Canon Era, Curse Breaking, Curses, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Magic Reveal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: “With this curse, I change the past. I rewrite what destiny has written. No servant ever walks through the palace doors. No man ever saves you from the hundred deaths you’ve already died.” Darkness melts into skin; shadows bind eyes shut. “You are already dead.”The king screams as the wound deepens.Somewhere, in the distance, a servant calls his name.~The one in which a sorcerer makes it so Merlin never left Ealdor, and destiny is giving Arthur one chance to make things right
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 278





	1. Prologue: There is no sorcerer as cruel as the proud angry fool

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. Um. First published Merlin fic. I used to be in the fandom years ago and then, somehow, I got dragged back into it a few weeks ago.
> 
> This is vaguely based on Rigoletto, an older movie that I'm not sure if many others have seen. 
> 
> Anyway, this is my first real dive into Merlin fic so please let me know what you think and if it's worth continuing. I'm excited to get this out there!

_ “I wanted to believe I could trust you.” _

_ It’s not for us to discern who says this. It’s not our place to pick and choose whose voice best matches the hurt. It’s not a decision we were asked to make.  _

_ But the sorcerer— the man cloaked in shadows with years of spells tempting his tongue— takes it upon himself to answer the statement anyway. _

_ Trust is a fragile thing and this man, this enemy with eyes only on the king and his small servant, knows how fragile things break. He knows how sharp those edges are. _

_ A twisting of old powerful words. A dance of gold within his pale green eyes. _

_ This is not how a story should start. _

_ No, of course not.  _

_ A story, a legend, should begin with sunshine warming the day, of goofy grins and banter fluttering through the air like so many delicate butterfly wings. It can start with two hearts pounding to the same beat without realization from either party, the king teasing his servant with a hand ruffling dark hair. _

_ It should start with smiles. It should start with the promise that these smiles hold something more— care, affection, wanting. _

_ Secrets. _

_ And this story could start there, in the air of the morning as these two stood in the sun with their faces towards the great blue sky. It could start with the way the servant laughs at the king’s newest insult. It could start with the way the king turns his eyes towards the servant, teasing giving way to fondness. _

_ It could start there. It could start with smiles. _

_ But, like trust and broken promises, this is not for us to decide. _

_ “I wanted to believe I could trust you.” _

_ This story starts with blue eyes burning gold, a servant casting away a curse meant for a king. It starts with the heat of battle fading into the ice of realization, the sudden knowing that a servant is not all he seems. _

_ “You’ve been lying to me! All this time!” _

_ “Please, I wanted to tell you, I—” _

_ “I don’t want to hear it—” _

_ “It’s only for you, I use it for—” _

_ “I should have you executed.” _

_ Words are cruel as curses; another sorcerer watches, forgotten by the two he’d been fighting. Turned towards each other, the king and servant wage a war of their own. _

_ And it’s in this war that the words are spoken. _

_ “I wanted to believe I could trust you.” _

_ A sorcerer knows a wish when he hears it, and dark magic delights in his chest when he sees the way both faces fall. They’re too distracted by their rage and pain to note the way he raises his hand. They’re too caught up in each others’ eyes to see the way his melt into a fiery gold. _

_ Old words fill his mouth. Light fills his palm. _

_ The servant and the king turn— much too late. _

_ Trust breaks like glass. The sharpened edges find their places in the world around them, tearing reality’s seams. _

_ “I see now who has been defending this king. I see now why every sorcerer before has failed.” A voice like thunder, over the cries of servant and king alike. “But now your brokenness will help me to create— to create a world where no protector ever comes to Camelot. A world where the king is nothing but a ghost. A world where I may have my perfect revenge.” _

_ It starts when the sorcerer completes his spell, his fist closing around the light in his palm and shutting the world away in darkness. _

_ It starts when he promises a new reality, a place where a servant never left his home. A place where a king never met his greatest ally.  _

_ And, as darkness sinks into the world around them, painting it all in shades of twisted magic, a small cut appears on the king’s chest. The beginnings of an injury he should have received long ago— a forgotten dagger slowly cutting in with a sorceress's song still weaving through his mind. _

_ Through it all, the sorcerer’s words remain. _

_ “With this curse, I change the past. I rewrite what destiny has written. No servant ever walks through the palace doors. No man ever saves you from the hundred deaths you’ve already died.” Darkness melts into skin; shadows bind eyes shut. “You are already dead.” _

_ The king screams as the wound deepens. _

_ Somewhere, in the distance, a servant calls his name. _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ But in the darkness, there’s a light. A soft blue orb, enough to allow the king to open his eyes. _

_ “Destiny,” it whispers into his mind without words, “cannot be so easily forgotten. You have turned your back on fate and, so, fate has turned its back on you. But fear not— the other half will not turn away so easily. _

_ “The sorcerer’s curse has changed the past but destiny offers you a chance to change it back,” it says. “Find the one whom this trust has wounded. Regain what has been lost. Only then will fate accept you back into its arms.” _

_ “And if I fail?” The king asks, alarmed at the frailty of his own voice. _

_ The light shimmers, bristling. _

_ “Then it will be as the sorcerer said,” it tells him. “You will learn of the debts you owe as they make their marks on your skin. And your life will be forfeit to the fate you left behind.” _

_ “How do I do this?” The king questions, his mind throbbing as something pulls him away from these shadows— as something yearns to place him back on a ground he knows he will not recognize. _

_ “Find your destiny and you will understand,” the light promises, fading slowly with each word. “But know this— until destiny has been regained, you are no longer the man you were. You are no longer a  _ Pendragon. _ ” _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

“Merlin?” Hunith asks, standing in the doorway of a bedroom that hasn’t been used in years. “What are— What are you doing here?”

Blue eyes open, the pupils still dilated as if anticipating a threat. Sweaty palms and a heart that threatens to break against his ribs, bursting as he turns to face his mother.

“It’s Arthur,” he says, eyes tearing across the room. The last thing he remembers is the darkness coming in around him, choking him as he tried to grasp for a spell to stop this. He remembers Arthur’s cry, the sudden scent of blood. He remembers running, eyes shut, into the shadows. 

But when he opened his eyes and the numbness of the darkness faded away, he found himself here.

“A sorcerer attacked Camelot,” he continues, grabbing hold of his mother’s shoulders. “I believe Arthur—”

And then, like a stone into a raging sea, it all slips away.

As Merlin pulls back, hands falling to his sides, something in the air ripples, pulling through his mind and distorting his thoughts. His words fade into the back of his mind— fade into insignificance, until they’re nothing more than gibberish caught in the weak remnants of a dream. 

Outside, Ealdor begins to wake.

“Arthur?” Hunith asks, eyebrows pinching together. “Darling, who’s Arthur?”

“I—” It tastes like something sour in the back of his throat, like over-ripened berry pressing to his tongue. It’s a slow wonder that fills his chest when he answers. “I’m not sure. I just felt that—”

He pauses when Hunith presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “Not a fever, so it must have been a dream. You know how wild those get when you’re out with Will all night.”

Will. His best friend. Merlin’s chest pangs but he can’t quite say why. 

“Right,” he says. “Sorry.”

Hunith smiles patiently, as if waiting for Merlin to continue with a silly smile or a joke about whatever shenanigans he got into the night before.

But, instead, Merlin draws back into his mind. He chases after the words lingering near the edges of his skull, the names he’s never said. Softly, he runs after them— until reaching a wall in the back of his memory, repelling him away until his vision dims.

A dream— a strange dream. It’s all it was. He tells himself that this is the only thing that makes sense.

Because, of course, it does make sense. How could he dream of castle towers if he’s never gone more than a few villages outside of his home? How could he imagine such magical powers if he’s never had the chance to learn, always hiding his gifts from sight?

And how could he know Arthur Pendragon like a friend when the prince was murdered years ago?

A dream— the strangest of dreams.

And, like all dreams, the details blur. The edges fade. 

His mother fixes his neckerchief, smoothing out the meaningless wrinkles with a gentle smile on her face.

Merlin remembers nothing other than this.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Merlin lives his life like repetition, the windows into his dreams shut tight each morning in order to keep from straying too far from the cycle. Waking and washing and meeting Will outside. Helping his mother around the house and then helping other villagers with the fields. It’s a simple life. It’s the only life he knows.

Everything moves in curious scheduled patterns. Everyone is the same as they were the day before.

And each day passes with the same strange sensation that Merlin’s forgetting something. 

Like when he’s seated for breakfast but then feels a tug of urgency, a certainty he’s meant to be somewhere else, preparing someone else’s food. Or when he’s muttering complaints to himself and turns his head to the side, expecting some cocky grin to respond.

Or when he wakes at night with a name on his lips— a name he can never quite remember when the sun rises to wash it all away.

It’s during a moment like this, a moment early in the morning as Merlin’s putting away the breakfast dishes with forgotten vowels stuck to his tongue, that something new finally happens.

Will bursts in without knocking, Hunith sighing fondly. There’s a brief apology, a quick good morning, but then Will’s looking at Merlin.

“Someone’s moving into that house in the forest,” Will says, breathless. “There’s a newcomer in Ealdor.”

A newcomer— it’s practically unheard of. No one comes to Ealdor unless they’re passing through, or unless they’ve come to start trouble like Kanen’s men once did. Merlin thinks back to the fight, to the near exposure of his magic and the way Will had been at his side throughout the battles. He thinks of the villagers lost, the provisions stolen.

Merlin will not let that happen again.

“No one’s ever lived in the forest home since the last owner. They say it’s cursed or haunted,” Merlin says, tugging his jacket on and following Will out the door. “Are you certain you saw somebody?”

Will rolls his eyes and pulls Merlin’s arm, the two of them running past children and animals. The village doesn’t quite disappear behind them but it does grow smaller, a speck of stone homes and fields caught in the space between trees. They’re not in the forest, not really, but it’s far enough that Merlin’s stomach twists.

Before him, the house in the forest is no longer alone.

It’s larger than the other homes in Ealdor, built for a Lord to rule over the land until Ealdor was freed from such control. Made of cool grey stone and thick wooden doors, it’s become one with the nature around it. Vines curl around the edges, embracing and caressing the walls before fading around into the shadows. Gardens and gates keep from too much being seen but Merlin and Will stand before it anyway, hidden behind the few trees at the edge of the forest.

For a moment, they watch only the two horses tied to one of the posts near the front, the bags at their feet and strapped upon their saddles. Merlin watches the way the tree branches bend towards the tip of the house, the way the sky leers down at it.

First, he hears a twig snapping. Then, his eyes are drawn down and he sees a man approaching.

He’s in a deep blue cloak, the hood pulled up over his head. He walks slowly, cautiously, a stranger to this place as he wanders closer to the door. The horses snort and kick their feet. 

The man turns back, a hushing noise on his lips. 

“Can you get a good look at him?” Will asks, nudging Merlin with his elbow. “You think he’ll come to start trouble like the others?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, his mouth dry.

It’s only for a moment, only for one stuttered heartbeat, but he swears he knows those eyes.

He swears that this man, this stranger, is looking right back at him.


	2. And Yet, We Cry Life Isn't Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She told you about my offer, did she not? Your secret kept in exchange for—”
> 
> “In exchange for my service here. Yes, she said as much,” Merlin spits, arms crossing over his chest. “You realize how absurd this is, right? I don’t even know you.”
> 
> From the little Merlin knows about the man, Arthur should snap back some retort, some snobbish demand that Merlin does as he says. Arthur should brush Merlin aside like some pest; he should threaten him again.
> 
> But it’s Arthur’s figure that shrinks back into the dark. It’s Arthur’s shaking breath that fills the air.
> 
> “No,” Arthur says. “You don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you so much to everyone giving this fic a chance! I'm going to try to update every weekend, but no exact promises haha. 
> 
> Also! If you're interested, I've made a playlist for this fic. The first few songs come from the movie this is based on, Rigoletto. All the chapter titles come from the songs as well, so check them out!  
[Pendragon Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5YOAyTne9DZmMVavk6rCFA)
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter! Enjoy!

Living in Ealdor, Merlin’s mastered the art of twisting his mouth into something that resembles contentment more than it actually means it. Beneath his lips rests an absurd sensation of confusion, a strange feeling of spinning and never slowing down.

Deep within his throat is the certainty that something’s wrong.

Then again, perhaps it’s nothing more than the angry curl of his magic resting in his veins, tucked away like a petulant child put to bed too early.

“Or maybe you’re just sensing something wrong with that stranger,” Will says one day when Merlin brings it up, the two of them lollygagging on their way to the well, a bucket swinging loosely from Merlin’s hand. “I’m telling you, you’ve been off ever since he showed up.”

“The entire  _ village  _ has been off,” Merlin says with a sigh, ignoring the weight across his shoulders when he thinks back to that look— that  _ gaze _ — he’d shared with said stranger. “But it’s always like that, isn’t it? He’ll keep to himself and the town will move on.”

Will snorts. “Sure it will. They think he’s dangerous, you know. All hidden and mysterious like that.”

“Right, I’m sure Ealdor’s the perfect place for an evil villain to hide,” Merlin says, pausing to glance at Will, his free hand resting on his hip.

“Why not?” Will asks, toying with a teasing smile. “It’s the perfect place for certain sorcerers to hang around.”

A reminder to shut up rises to Merlin’s tongue, a shameful secret that stings each time he remembers it. 

“Quiet, will you? We don’t need—”

“Ah, these idiots again.”

Merlin tenses and watches as Will does the same, the mocking voice carrying towards them like a sour smell on the breeze. He doesn’t want to look but his eyes betray him anyway, turning to glare at the stocky figure of the town’s local bully, Benjamin Baker. 

“Yes, we know. You don’t need to announce yourself every time you show up,” Will says, unbothered by the way Ben and his followers glare. Merlin chuckles, watching as Ben’s eyes harden. 

“You’re such  _ girls _ ,” he spits. “Can’t even take a little joke, can you?”

Merlin’s free hand moves soundlessly at his side, a gentle warmth between his fingers when he imagines shutting Ben up, imagines tying his lips together with nothing more than a twitch of his wrist.

But, then, these are only ever just imaginings. His hand folds into a fist, his mouth back in that unpleasant smiling shape.

“We’re past the age of bullying now, Ben,” Merlin says. “Wouldn’t you be of better use somewhere else?”

“Wouldn’t you be of better use somewhere far away?” Ben asks, rolling his eyes like two small dice in his head. “I thought you were supposed to run off to Camelot years ago.”

Again, that small twinge within his gut, something in his vision blurring like a thin sheet of glass keeping him from a silent world in his head— a world that, try as he might remember, seems not to exist.

Through the piercing charge of his pulse, Merlin catches Will’s voice, snapping some insult and barb.

“—rather you be the one to go,” Will finishes as Merlin’s surfaced back in this reality. Will grabs Merlin’s elbow and turns him, his grip tight. “Come on, your mum’s gonna need that water soon. I don’t think she’d appreciate us wasting time on this.”

“Yeah, I—”

Merlin pauses, stumbling and catching himself at the last second.

Across the path, leaning against a house, a man watches them. 

He’s not any man Merlin’s seen before, no one he recognizes from Ealdor or the handful of visitors who pass by every few months. No, he’s different from all those familiar faces in a way Merlin can’t explain. Though there’s a stern shape around his lips— not quite a frown or a scowl— there’s a kindness in his eyes. His hair’s thick, dark, framing his face like the shadows he stands in. Merlin can’t see more than the more obvious details— the soft blue fabric of his shirt caught in the softest breeze, the rise and fall of a broad chest, and t he silver gleam of a sword kept close to his side.

For just a moment, Merlin stares. The man looks back but it’s not the same look as the other stranger who had shared a glance with Merlin. That had been something delicate, something almost intimate— something where cool blue eyes had invited themselves into Merlin’s mind with no intent to leave. This gaze is softer, simply two strangers doing a double-take.

“Right, of course.” Ben’s harsh scoff leads Merlin to turn back despite Will’s protest. “Wouldn’t want Merlin to upset the one parent he has left. Though perhaps being disowned would still be better than being a bastard.”

It’s a hot iron against Merlin’s chest, sinking into his bones and body like fire lit inside his skin. It’s nothing Ben hasn’t said before— a word he learned when they were young and he’d pinned Merlin as the strange one, the one the rest of the boys should shun and mock— and Merlin had flared red with shame each time the insult had been hurled at his feet.

But this time…

This time it doesn’t just sting. It  _ burns.  _ It burns like being torn apart; it burns like misplaced and misunderstood tears behind his eyes.

He can’t speak, his words tied around his throat and squeezing out all the air left in his lungs— punched in the gut by Ben’s sharp laughter, his grubby finger pointing at the way Merlin gapes. 

And, Merlin? 

Well, Merlin simply aches and wonders why that ache is suddenly so strong.

“Oh, don’t pretend it’s something new,” Ben says, excitedly closing in on the pain Merlin’s clearly shown. “You’ve always been the town’s favorite—”

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin snaps, his voice darker than it’s been before. “You have no right to call me that.”

Though his words are hard and his eyes sheen with anger unmatched by any fight he’s had with Ben before— except, maybe, that time they were dumb enough to exchange blows over an insult about Merlin’s mother—, Ben continues.

“Take a  _ joke _ , Merlin,” Ben says, rolling his shoulders back with a lazy grin. And what gives him the right to smile so? Because he knows his father’s name and face? Because he has stories of hunting with a man who smiles and calls him son? Because he knows how much it hurts Merlin not to know where his father’s gone? “Better hurry with the water, anyway. We’ll see you boys later.”

Merlin knows he shouldn’t but the trees planted around them have low-hanging branches; the leaves are bent beneath the weight of water collected from last night’s rain.

Merlin knows he shouldn’t but flashing his eyes gold and watching the water drop onto Ben’s unruly dirt-brown hair, soaking through his shirt and trousers, is a small relief for the hurt still tied around his heart.

“Merlin!” Will’s hand back around his arm, tighter than before. He tugs, pulling Merlin after him and not caring for how Merlin nearly trips. “What the hell has gotten into you? You know if your mother—”

“She’s not going to know, Will,” Merlin says, pulling away with a stubborn pout. “And Ben’s too thick to notice anything.”

“No, right, well,” Will says, folding his arms over his chest. “ _ He  _ may not notice but  _ others  _ certainly will.”

“Others?” Merlin’s eyebrows furrow together. “What are you—”

Will’s eyes flick past Merlin’s shoulder, a brief warning in the form of a twitch. Merlin goes silent, turning slowly to see what Will means.

The man from before, the man with the sword and the curious gaze.

For the second time that day, Merlin’s eyes fall upon his.

_ He looks just like a knight _

It’s a thought that appears unbidden, accompanied by a cruel placement of nausea in his stomach as he turns away, vision blurring as he wonders what the man saw— what the man knows.

“It’s just some water,” Merlin says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “No one will think anything of it.”

Will’s silent for a moment too long and, if Merlin didn’t know him any better, he’d pretend it’s just a joke, just something to set Merlin on edge. Another game from when Will had promised Hunith he’d protect Merlin, an exercise in reminding Merlin of the fear that would fill him if anyone ever saw what he could do. A harsh use of his imagination— of flames in his mind, of shackles and cells— as his fantasies concoct every dark scenario.

If not for the man standing across the way, Merlin would try to pretend this is just Will pretending with him. Playing knights and warlocks— playing pretend, the way they always did.

Will doesn’t smile. “I hope you’re right, Merls.”

Merlin swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Will tries to grin, tries to joke and pull him back towards the well, but the light atmosphere has vanished. A cloud tugged over the sun of Merlin’s smile; a fog clouding the colors around him.

Everything is dull— everything except the image of the strange man turning and walking away with some unknown purpose in his step.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Merlin doesn’t mind living with his mother at an age where he should be looking to create a family of his own. It’s another thing Ben teases him for but, really, how can Merlin resent it when he comes home to a warm dinner and a warmer hug each night? Ben could never understand such tenderness.

But, then, Ben probably also doesn't understand the terror Merlin feels when his mother doesn’t smile upon seeing him. He can’t understand the sudden ice across Merlin’s skin when Hunith takes a breath and looks at him with wide frightened eyes.

It occurs to Merlin, still halfway through the front door with the darkness of night pressing close to his back, that Will must have been right.

“Merlin,” Hunith says in the same voice she’d use when he was younger, making spoons and forks fly to his small toddler hands. “Merlin, what have—”

_ What have you done? _

Hunith would never blame him for something he was born with but Merlin hears the words all the same.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Merlin shuts the door and locks it, proud of how his hands fail to shake. With his mother gasping for breath before him, he can’t appear as anything but strong. “Tell me, I’ll fix it.”

Hunith doesn’t answer right away, eyes glancing over windows and doors as if seeking out traitors and spies. Apparently finding none, she looks back to Merlin, leading him to sit at the table with her.

“A man came to the door not more than an hour ago,” she says in some hushed tone, her words only trembling a bit. Always the courageous mother; always Merlin’s rock. “I… I don’t want you to worry. I know you couldn’t have meant to but… but he said he saw. He  _ saw _ .”

Merlin knew it was coming but, somehow, it’s like being submerged in freezing water anyway.

“I’ll tell them it was just me,” Merlin says, reaching for his mother’s hand, holding tight and speaking quicker when she tries to shake her head. “No, listen. You have to say you didn’t know. You can’t let them know that you… If the king comes, or sends knights, then—”

“But, Merlin, he won’t tell the king,” Hunith says, pulling her hand away only to grab onto Merlin’s arm, holding him still. “He works for that man who just moved in. He’s looking for a servant in his home. The man who came… He said they won’t tell anyone about your secret if you work for his master.”

It doesn’t sink in right away. Merlin barely breathes, still as stone.

“Now, I don’t know what they’re planning but it can’t be good.” Hunith speaks like a conspirator, like her mind is only made of plans to protect her son. “I said you’d go meet with him tomorrow. That should buy us some time. I’ve packed your things— you’re to leave tomorrow morning. Go to Camelot, find Gaius, remember—”

“I can’t do that!” Merlin stands, nearly toppling over his chair in his haste. “I can’t leave you here, especially if it would make you a liar.” 

“Merlin, please—”

“No,” Merlin says, fear for his mother outweighing any fear he may have held for himself. “I’ll do as you told them. I’ll visit them tomorrow. We can’t know for sure that they’re bad.”

“And we can’t know for sure that they’re not,” Hunith snaps, slamming a hand on the table. “If you believe I’m going to risk your life over such a slim chance, then I fear you may not understand your mother at all.”

“Of course I do,” Merlin groans, every bit the little boy Hunith must see him as. “But what son am I if I leave you to face their anger at being betrayed?”

“I can handle them,” Hunith says, the steel from those days with Kanen filling her eyes once more.

Merlin’s own eyes burn; he knows they’re filling with gold without his permission, windows shaking around them. “And I can’t?”

“I can’t take that risk,” Hunith repeats, saying each word slowly. “Merlin,  _ please _ .”

Merlin draws back, the panic in Hunith’s voice unlike anything he’s heard before. He takes a breath. He tries to calm his own heart. 

Hunith’s pleas echo in the small space of their home. 

“I can’t be hiding all my life,” Merlin says, his voice soft and small. 

Hunith’s eyes are sure. “As long as you have a life, you must do what you can to protect it.”

Merlin’s shoulders fall as if he’s shrinking into himself, trying to disappear. “I just want to be free of all this. Why can’t I just be  _ normal _ ?”

“You were never normal,” Hunith says with the gentlest smile, holding out a hand until Merlin takes it, sitting beside her once more. Her touch is warm, inviting; her eyes are the same. “You were always meant to be special, magic or not, and I’m not willing to risk anything that can take your heart away from this world.” She pauses, her slightly shaking breath the only sign that this is as hard for her to say as it is for Merlin to hear. “You can meet with Will before you leave, let him know where you’re going. But you have to go before these men start to suspect anything about your leaving.”

Merlin doesn’t speak, a chill like death wrapping around his insides and holding even his heart still as he tries to think. His mother’s words float just on the surface of his mind, terrifying but without the impact they should have.

Leave for Camelot. Leave home. Leave Will. Leave his mother to the mercy of two strangers she’s lied to.

Merlin sets his jaw. He doesn’t look her in the eye. 

Hunith says something more, her voice stern enough for Merlin to know the conversation is done with. 

Still, he fails to catch any of her following words. His mind rushes through ways to keep her safe, ways to keep his secret hidden. Plots he’s made before when he couldn’t sleep and worst-case scenarios ran rampant through his head; promises he’s vowed only to himself, oaths to protect those he loves.

It’s only when a budding headache forms beneath his skull that he smiles, standing once more.

“I’m sure it will all turn out as you say,” he says, heart twinging only a little at his mother’s relieved sigh. “I’ll go to bed now, then. It seems I have a busy adventure ahead of me.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

For all of Ealdor’s pride for the working lifestyle and a population of diligent laborers, Merlin finds that few are willing to wake earlier than they need. Sneaking out of his home is easy, requiring nothing more than soft steps and quiet breaths. The rest is even simpler.

Really, Merlin’s nearly disappointed. Creeping through the pale blue shade of morning, animals twitching awake as he steals through trees and bushes, he had almost hoped for something more exciting. A quick chase through the forest, or the chance to use one of the lies he’d come up with the night before— these, at least, would distract him from the fear eating at his nerves.

And it’s a fear that only grows as he finally approaches the stranger’s home. 

He moves as if it’s not all fully of his own free will, sluggish steps taking him to the front door. It’s suddenly not so quiet anymore; his pulse rushes through his ears, a steady thumping sound that mimics the knocking he does on the door.

As his hand falls back to his side, he recognizes that this may possibly be the stupidest thing he’s ever done. 

His mother’s voice takes the place of his own thoughts, reminding him of the blind hate people hold for magic. These men have promised his safety in exchange for some work and, as Merlin had fallen asleep last night, it had seemed to be a simple price to pay. Now, waiting for the door to open, he wonders if his mother was right. Could this be a trap? A witchfinder looking for some easy prey, someone to sell off to the knights and king? 

Could this, at all, be a mistake?

Merlin’s tongue feels too big for his mouth and he struggles to breathe, taking a step back. He’s considering running when the door finally opens.

The man from yesterday stands before him.

“Oh, you,” he says with a reassuring smile on his lips— not at all the treacherous look of a man preparing a trap. He looks Merlin over, pausing only to furrow his eyebrows together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know to expect you so early.”

“Right, no, that’s, uh, that’s my fault,” Merlin says. “My mum doesn’t know I’m here. Can I… Can I speak to the man who lives here? The other one, that is. I assume you work for him?”

“I’ve only just met him a few weeks ago,” the stranger says, though he opens the door further and lets Merlin in. “I’m not certain he’d take well to unexpected visitors.”

“If he’s threatening me and my mother, he’d do well to expect such things.” Merlin pauses, wincing at his own snappish tone. “Sorry.”

To his surprise, the man nearly laughs. “No, I understand entirely. It wasn’t the most favorable task I’ve performed but I was assured that it was all for good reason.” He stops before Merlin, a hand at his hip. Merlin follows his actions with his eyes, noting the lack of a sword. Surely, there’s no true danger here? “Merlin, right?”

Merlin jumps, pulled from his observations by the sound of his name. 

“That’s right.” He contemplates asking how this man knows but decides against it. It can’t be too hard to find someone’s name is such a small town, after all. “And you are?”

“Lancelot,” the man answers. “Now, you wanted to speak with the master of this home?”

Something tugs at Merlin’s mind, something with dark shadows and the remnants of grief buried deep within his being. He tries to speak but his voice is broken. He shuts his mouth, nodding and looking away from Lancelot’s kind and watchful gaze.

Lancelot’s packed more questions in the sound of his name than he has in the entire conversation they’ve shared.

“Come along, then,” Lancelot says, turning from Merlin and nodding towards a hallway. The house seems almost bigger on the inside, the rooms small but filled with luxurious decorations, things no mere small town inhabitant would need. Plush carpets and thick curtains the shade of spilled wine greet Merlin as they wander through the stone building, cold seeping in from the walls the further they go.

At last, Lancelot takes him to a final door, a heavy lock hanging loosely from the handle. He makes quick work of opening it, poking his head inside and exchanging a few muttered words with someone else. Again, Merlin’s heart pounds; again, he wonders how much of a mistake he is making.

“He’ll see you,” Lancelot says, turning back towards Merlin. “But you’re not to go any further than the edge of the carpet.”

Fear makes way for mystery. Merlin nods, following Lancelot’s order as he steps into the darkened room.

Though, perhaps dark is an understatement. All light comes only from the doorway Merlin stands in, the curtains pulled tight across the windows as if blocking out some unseen foe. Merlin hesitates as shadows blind him, pushing against his skin like the intruder he is.

“H-Hello?” He says. 

In the corner of the room, in a chair facing him, a shadow moves.

“Merlin,” this new stranger says. “Welcome.”

There’s no reason for this man’s voice to strike at Merlin in the way it does, like a whip uncoiled and dragged across his skin. Though, it’s even less dramatic than that. It’s no blow or wound; it’s a brush of cold wind across his cheek. It’s the whisper of a friend he’s forgotten. 

It's the touch of a dream dragging him back to bed even as the details fade.

This man, this stranger, says his name like a secret they share. And Merlin nearly falls apart at the sound of it.

“Who are you?” He asks, his voice more urgent than he means for it to be. “How do you know me?”

“But I don’t know you.” The man stands, still hidden in darkness and the cloaks clinging to his frame. He turns from Merlin, pulling apart a curtain only to let it close again. “Not yet, at least, though I imagine we can become good friends should you give it the chance. I’m Arthur.”

“Arthur what?” Merlin presses, nearly stepping forward before remembering the rule he was given.

The man, Arthur, stiffens. 

“Just Arthur,” he says. “There’s no need for more than that.”

“Why? Because I might know you?” Merlin pushes, digging into Arthur’s answers like a man searching desperately for treasure.

“No, because I have nothing more to give,” Arthur snaps. “Arthur is all that I am. You’re not to ask for more than this.”

A man with no last name, no title or history to share. Words spoken in a smooth carefree voice.

Merlin’s next breath tastes like a memory he’s let go of too soon.

Just as easily, however, this certainty wavers into frustration, into the shapeless anger towards a man who’s threatened his home. Emotions pull like waves, like dolls on a string— not his own choice and, yet, something he’s bound to follow all the same.

“Then can I at least ask why you had your man come to my home yesterday?” Snapping at Arthur is easy; the words shake loose like stones within the wall built across the back of his mind. “My mother doesn’t need prats like you giving her such a scare.”

Arthur jerks. There’s a sharp intake of breath but it’s easily covered by a cough.

“Really, don’t you think you’re scaring her all on your own?” Arthur asks upon recovering from his supposed shock. “Using your… your  _ magic _ so carelessly? Didn’t she teach you any better than that,  _ Mer _ lin?”

It’s Merlin’s turn to gasp, to shudder beneath such a familiar sound.

“Either way, it’s none of your business,” he says though his voice is softer than before— defending rather than demanding. “And I wasn’t really hurting anybody with it. Ben deserved—”

“Relax. I wasn’t going to turn you or your mother in.” Arthur pauses here, and Merlin can nearly feel the hesitation Arthur encounters before continuing. “She told you about my offer, did she not? Your secret kept in exchange for—”

“In exchange for my service here. Yes, she said as much,” Merlin spits, arms crossing over his chest. “You realize how absurd this is, right? I don’t even know you.”

From the little Merlin knows about the man, Arthur should snap back some retort, some snobbish demand that Merlin does as he says. Arthur should brush Merlin aside like some pest; he should threaten him again.

But it’s Arthur’s figure that shrinks back into the dark. It’s Arthur’s shaking breath that fills the air.

“No,” Arthur says. “You don’t.”

So small. So out of place.

Merlin blinks. “Then why would you—”

“Oh, come on!” As if embarrassed by his own emotions, as confusing as they are, Arthur lashes out, hitting the back of the chair with a closed fist. “How can you be questioning this? It’s a good deal, is it not?”

“It’s suspicious,” Merlin snaps back. “You expect me to trust a stranger?”

“I expect you to trust  _ me!” _

Merlin steps forward, over the rug and into the shadows. Arthur makes a sound deep in his throat, a sound like choking.

“I already said I don’t know you,” Merlin says slowly through gritted teeth, every muscle tense. “You move into my village without a word of greeting to anyone. You have your man spy on me. You threaten my mother, my home. You ask for my service and, more than this, you ask for my trust?” Merlin scoffs, a bitter laugh soiling his lips. “You’ve not earned my trust, Arthur.”

Arthur’s quiet for a long time, his breaths as heavy as Merlin’s. They share air out of sync, Merlin breathing out as Arthur breathes in.

“I find it comical that a  _ sorcerer  _ would speak of things like trust.” Arthur’s words are cold and calculated, spoken with the certainty of a man who cares not who he hurts. “Or have you forgotten what you are?”

This time, Merlin does shrink away. As if dodging a physical blow, he staggers back, some deep part of his chest aching.

“I see we’re not going to reach an understanding,” he says after a time has passed. “I think I should go.”

“Wait, Merlin, no!” As if they hadn’t just been fighting, Arthur’s tone is one of fear. He steps forward as Merlin steps away, a hand outstretched. “You need to stay.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” Merlin says, though he doesn’t move any further. He glances around the room, nose wrinkled. “You’re nothing but a stranger.”

“Yes, but we can—”

“Be friends?” Merlin shakes his head. Arthur’s words play through his mind, the way he spat out that Merlin was just a sorcerer, the way he implied he knew nothing of trust. Something just as cruel tugs at Merlin’s heart, something he knows he shouldn’t do. “I don’t even know your face.”

His hand moves to the side.

“Merlin, wait—”

Eyes flash gold. A curtain falls to the floor with the simple flick of Merlin's wrist.

Arthur stares back at him with the same knowing eyes he wore before.

But Arthur’s different now, standing in the golden glow of morning sun. There’s something more to his eyes than mere comprehension— something more than the anger they have now, something more than fear. He shrinks away from the light but it’s too late; Merlin’s already seen the hollow sadness deep within the blue.

And, more than this, he sees something that nearly brings him to Arthur’s side.

Merlin doesn’t know much about wounds or health, but Arthur’s skin carries bruising and cuts that Merlin hadn’t seen before. Spots of red decorate the soft white fabric of his shirt— like spilled wine on a marble floor. 

Arthur looks back at Merlin, wide-eyed and horrified. Dark circles like bruises rest beneath his eyes; his lips, colorless and pale, move without sound.

Arthur carries the looks of a man who should be dead.

For a second, no one speaks. For a moment, no one dares to breathe.

Then, softly, Arthur says Merlin's name.

“Merlin, you should go.”

And, for the first time since stepping foot in this room, Merlin doesn’t want to move. Something in him cries out to stay, to tend to the injuries across Arthur’s body. Something aches and he looks at Arthur like he’s the cure.

But funny feelings and strange men are no match for facts Merlin’s known his entire life. Arthur may seem kind but, Merlin knows, no one is kind to magic. Arthur’s already made a threat towards Merlin’s life; would he dare to do so again?

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, though he knows not what he’s apologizing for. “I’m so sorry.”

When Arthur speaks, it’s almost sad.

“Just… Just go,” he says. “Merlin, go.”

And, for some reason he can’t explain, Merlin does.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a few days later than I would have liked but I hope you all enjoyed it! I think I liked how this turned out? I just hope it's all making some kind of sense, haha. I know that there are some things that may be confusing but they should all be answered as the fic goes on!
> 
> Also! Huge shoutout to everyone who messaged me on either tumblr or twitter about this fic. You warm my heart <3
> 
> I'm linking my twitter and tumblr posts about this fic down below! It would help out a lot if you took time to share those posts around! Or send an ask/message to either account, I'd love to get to know some people in the fandom!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://hum-my-name.tumblr.com/post/189275377483/pendragon)   



	3. We'd Rather Curse and Blame Our Fate Than Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "I'll try to update every weekend!"
> 
> Also Me: *disappears for the better part of a few weeks*
> 
> I'm so sorry. Please don't ever trust or believe me again
> 
> <>
> 
> BTW I added a moodboard thing I made for this chapter because I really like it. Fun Fact! You can go reblog that on my tumblr :)

Merlin doesn’t run as far or as fast as he knows he should. He only runs until Arthur’s home is hidden behind him, tucked back behind green trees and heavy branches. He only runs until his heart has calmed and his breaths have eased, his mind fading into a slow pace that brings him to a stop on the outskirts of town.

Here, still waiting for the world around him to fully wake, Merlin pauses.

His chest aches from the run but also from some other feeling he can’t quite name. His hands shake when he runs them through his hair, sweat sticking to his forehead as he bites his lip and shakes his head.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees Arthur’s face.

Arthur— Gods, _ Arthur _. Eyes like something haunted, and skin as pale as death. Merlin had glimpsed him before but to see the details so closely… to see such pain and not know why…

The ache in Merlin’s chest burns brighter. 

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, opening his eyes and beginning a calmer walk home. “I don’t owe him anything.”

Even as he says it, it feels like a lie. 

It’d be easy, he thinks, to pretend it’s just some selfless part of his nature— some piece of him that sees hurt and wants to fix it. And it wouldn’t be entirely a lie, either. He’s always been the kid who’d carry small birds back to their nests after storms, checking on them every day just to be sure they still remember how to fly. He’d cried when his mother explained hunting to him, the thought of such killing striking him like an arrow to his own back.

He’d never seen a hurt he didn’t want to fix.

But bigger than this, there’s something that’s not so selfless at all. Something that has Arthur’s face appearing behind his eyes each time he blinks, looking into his soul with no intent to leave. There’s something that covers him in warmth when the wind blows just right through the leaves, mimicking the sound of Arthur’s whisper. If he pauses and shuts his eyes, he can imagine how it would sound to have Arthur— this stranger, this threat— whispering his name.

_ Merlin _

_ Merlin _

“Merlin!”

Merlin doesn’t realize he’s returned home until he’s through the door, images of Arthur fading into the sight of his mother hurrying towards him with tears gathered in her eyes.

“Mum,” he says as she tosses her arms around him, holding him tight with soft hitches in her breaths. “Is everything alright?”

“Alright?” She pulls back, fixing him with a look that has him feeling like a little boy caught in the middle of mischief. “I’d thought you’d left without saying goodbye. Or that they took you. Gods, Merlin, your bags were still here! You couldn’t have left a note to let me know you’d be back?”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says with a wince. “I didn't think it’d take so long. I had to talk to—”

“Will,” Hunith says with a sigh, shaking her head as if she’d figured it all out. “Of course, though I still would have appreciated some notice. Now, I’ve made breakfast, so either eat quick or pack it up. How—”

“Mum,” Merlin says, a light hold on her arm. “I didn’t go to see Will.”

Hunith’s eyebrows furrow together and her lips part, though no sounds escape. It gives Merlin time to step back, to take a breath and look away.

“I went to see Arthur,” he says in a soft voice, cringing away from his mother’s gasp. “I wanted to know for myself what he was attempting.”

“Merlin,” Hunith breathes, eyes wide and face pale when Merlin looks back up at her. Her chest heaves for breaths as if still fearing for Merlin’s life. “That’s not funny.”

“I know. But I couldn’t risk you being hurt if they thought you were lying,” Merlin insists, turning back towards his mother. “And, I mean, they didn’t hurt me. We just talked.”

“Yes, and when they go talk to some knights or the king?” Hunith asks, her hands on her hips. “This just proves that you need to leave. You don’t have any sense of self-preservation. Always finding some way to play with fire or sacrifice yourself or—”

“Working for a stranger is hardly a sacrifice,” Merlin says without thinking. “Besides, he didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me. And, well, I don’t know if he even could.”

Hunith looks away, her breaths still trembling. “I assure you, the man who came to the door the other day looked strong enough to drag you to Camelot if he needed.”

“No, not him,” Merlin says. “Arthur.”

Hunith glances back at him, curiosity catching her gaze. “Arthur?”

“He owns the house,” Merlin says slowly. How is he supposed to describe Arthur, this man he barely knows? How is he to say if he’s safe or not? How is he supposed to explain the tugging in his gut, pulling him back towards Arthur? “I’d work for him. He says he’ll keep my secret safe.”

Hunith presses her lips together, her hands becoming fists with white knuckles. But she’s still, all tremors and shakes passed, and her eyes are firm.

Finally, as Merlin’s insides grow cold, she speaks. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to convince you out of this, is there?”

Merlin’s smile is helpless; his shrug is weak.

“You can try,” he says. “But I think I’ve already made up my mind.”

“Please,” Hunith says, letting her hands fall from her hips. “You made up your mind last night. You wouldn’t have run off without telling me if you hadn’t.”

Merlin takes a step towards his mother, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether or not to pull her into a hug.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“You’re going to get hurt,” Hunith says after a second has passed, her eyes on the floor. “I don’t know how or why but… I just don’t have a good feeling about this. Nothing good comes from people knowing about magic.”

She speaks in a hushed voice that tells of more than fear for her son. Her words, simple as they are, carry through Merlin’s mind, reeking of experience and pain he could never fully comprehend. 

“Will knows,” he says, trying and failing to joke.

Hunith still doesn’t look up. “Will knew you before he knew your magic. This man… These men… They will only ever know that they saw a sorcerer first.”

“Then maybe… maybe this can be a way to change that,” Merlin says. “Let me show them that they have nothing to dread from me or from magic.”

“And do you have nothing to fear?” Hunith asks. 

Merlin considers the smile in Lancelot’s voice when he invited him in. He recalls the way Arthur had looked at him when the lights flooded the room.

He thinks back to the way he felt when Arthur first said his name.

“I can be careful,” Merlin says instead of all these things, choosing his words like spells to ease his mother’s fears. “I can protect myself and, this way, I can also protect you.”

Sun pours in through the windows, soaking the small room in warmth and something kinder than the cold they faced the night before when discussing the same thing. Merlin doesn’t quite feel the heat just yet but he can recognize the light shining upon his mother’s face when she squints up at him. He can feel the tension escaping them both when she takes his hand and presses his knuckles to her lips.

“You don’t need to protect me,” she says. 

Merlin smiles. “I want to, though. I want to do something good in my life and if it’s serving a strange man in order to keep you safe… Well, why wouldn’t I do that?”

Hunith squeezes his hand and covers it with her other hand, holding him tight.

“I don’t trust them,” she admits. “They’ve only just arrived and, already, the people are spreading these rumors. Saying they’re spies or here to take our money again… If it’s some plot, I don’t want you caught up in it.”

Merlin shuts his eyes. There’s a memory behind the memory of Arthur’s face, behind the sound of Arthur’s voice. Something not quite real but not quite fake, something he can’t name.

“I don’t think I have anything to fear from Arthur,” Merlin says, not realizing he believes it until he opens his eyes and nods to himself. “He’s strange, sure, but I don’t believe he means me any harm.”

Hunith pulls away, her head tipping gently to the side as she meets Merlin’s eyes.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks.

Merlin smiles and nods, words failing him. 

Hunith sighs and reaches forward again, brushing wrinkles out of Merlin’s shirt, her eyes lingering on her own fingers as if wishing such a simple act could brush away this trouble, too.

“Very well,” she says. “You may serve Arthur. If he has your trust, then he has mine, too. Just don’t be getting into any trouble.”

Merlin’s grin is young, playful with just a hint of childish fear.

“Who?” He asks, joking. “Me?”

Hunith says nothing, her eyes still on her gently brushing hands.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s morning again when Merlin leaves for Arthur’s home, having spent the rest of yesterday with his mother and her fears. It’s earlier, too. There’s a darkness left on the edges of the sky, a darkness that belongs to nature and creatures— a darkness that Merlin clings to as he tucks his jacket tighter around his frame and hurries through the town once more.

Lancelot had arrived the night before, and Merlin had accepted Arthur’s offer with his mother’s hand holding tightly to his arm. While seeming unsurprised, Lancelot had hesitated to believe Merlin’s acceptance, questioning him after the first meeting Merlin had with Arthur.

Merlin, in turn, hadn’t hesitated to assure Lancelot that he was willing to be Arthur’s servant if it meant the rest of his life could be kept the same.

And, so, Merlin walks through town before the sun has fully shown its face, yawning as birds begin to peek over the edges of branches and nests. Best not to question his new orders, he finds. Much better to simply do as he’s told.

Arthur’s home is no less imposing the second time walking up to it, his heart still pounding in time with the rapid knocking on the door. He holds his breath as he waits for the door to open, knowing Lancelot will be behind it but wondering what he’ll do if it’s Arthur he sees.

“Ah, Merlin,” Lancelot says, letting Merlin in with a small nod. “How are you today?”

“Oh, I’m, um, alright,” Merlin says, surprised by the kindness. “But I’ve only been awake for about an hour so I can’t quite say for sure.”

To his shock, Lancelot laughs, resting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Well, you’ll be glad to hear your tasks here aren’t meant to be too tedious,” he says, leading him further into the home. “They’ll take most the day but Arthur’s happy to offer food or drink should you need it while working.”

“That’s… generous.” Merlin can’t help looking around as he’s led through the building, searching for a glimpse of golden hair or hollow eyes. 

“He may not seem it at first, but Arthur’s an honorable man.” Lancelot’s not so defensive as he is certain, nodding to himself as they pause near some bedrooms. “You can attend to the horses twice a day; Arthur’s asked that you water and walk them upon arrival and before leaving. I’ll be absent most days, taking care of tasks Arthur wants done outside of the house or town, so you don’t need to worry about leaving once you arrive. Your other tasks will include…”

Merlin nods along as Lancelot continues, listing off work that counts more as chores than anything else. Cleaning, patching up old clothes, tending to the gardens around the house, as well as other menial jobs make their way onto Merlin’s to-do list. He frowns a bit, though he tries not to show it. Certainly, these are jobs that any young boy looking for work could do. Why does Arthur need Merlin?

“Right, so, have you got all that?” Lancelot asks, apparently reaching the end of his list.

Merlin jumps in place, pulled from his thoughts with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, of course. All sounds simple enough.”

Too simple. Too easy.

His mother’s fear of this being a trap plants itself in Merlin’s mind. 

“Good,” Lancelot says. “Well, then, you’re free to begin. Just check in with me once you’ve finished everything then you’re welcome to return home.”

Lancelot turns as if to leave, as if Merlin’s supposed to accept that this dull work is the price of his secret.

“Wait!” Merlin calls out, following after Lancelot a bit. “Arthur… Will I see him again?”

Lancelot pauses, not yet turning around. 

“Right, of course,” he says, simply looking over his shoulder. “The upstairs room I took you to yesterday— that was Arthur’s. It’s been asked that you don’t return there.”

“What?” Merlin draws back. “So I’m just never to see him?”

For some reason, the thought turns his stomach. On a layer of his being, deeper than his skin and bones, some piece of his magic twists. It reaches out into the home— searching, seeking, hunting without his permission.

“He keeps to himself,” Lancelot says with some level of sternness, his lips turned down. “I trust you to consider that wisely.”

Merlin’s magic snaps back into his veins and he pulls back as if dodging some unseen whip.

There’s something wrong within this building. There’s something off about this place.

Mouth dry and smile shaky, Merlin nods even as his head aches from trying to piece together the little he knows about the strange man that lives here. Somehow, his almost answers continue to slip away at the last moment.

“Of course,” he says. “You can trust me.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The dust in Arthur’s home almost seems to speak to Merlin as he wipes it away from furniture and shelves, hours into his work. Watering the horses, cleaning clothes, tending to the garden— all of it’s been rather simple. As if Merlin’s done this before, muscle memory helps him to hold the horses' reins just right, to brush the brown one’s mane and wonder why she looks at him as if she’s seen him before. He hums a song he doesn’t know he knows as he wanders through the halls, arms filled with dirty clothes. He turns among the flowers, half-expecting to see some other worker beside him, a flash of curled brown hair and a gentle smile filling his mind before fading away like so much dirt in the wind.

And, now, the dust whispers of Arthur. 

As Merlin drags his cloth across the surface of the desk in one of the rooms near the staircase, he holds his breath and imagines what other hands have grazed the wood. What other fingers have curled around this structure? Whose breath has warmed the dust, displacing them before allowing it all to collect like history in this home?

If Merlin listens, if he promises to be gentle, he can see something in his mind pointing to Arthur’s face. Who is this man, that even the dirt and the dust causes Merlin to think endlessly of his image and name?

Merlin’s not so certain he wants to know.

Sighing, he pulls back and looks over his work, a corner of the table left before he’s meant to begin work upstairs. He pauses, his eyes caught on the duller dirt nearest him. Gently, breath still held close in his lungs, he places his fingertips atop it.

Skin to dust, a dust that arrived in this place along with Arthur and his many puzzles. Dirt sticks to Merlin’s fingers, breaking free from the wood when he pulls back. He doesn’t look, though. He doesn’t wonder why it means so much to have this little piece of something big— something he still can’t quite understand.

Shaking his head at himself, Merlin swipes the rag once more over the desk, cleaning away the rest of the dust. He only feels a little bad to see it all go— and that’s because, more than this lament, he feels something worse.

He feels someone watching him. 

Merlin turns slowly, his breath leaving him in a _ whoosh _ as he peers out the door and up the stairs— as he sees a figure leaning over the edge, watching him with strange blue eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, dropping the cloth and stepping through the doorway without realizing he’s made the decision to do so. As he says the name, his mind burns.

For a moment, Arthur simply stares back, his hands twisted around a small cloth of his own, something Merlin can’t quite see. Arthur above, Merlin below— they watch each other.

And then, as Merlin takes another step forward, Arthur turns and leaves.

“Wait, Arthur!” Merlin takes off after him, stumbling up the stairs with a speed he didn’t know he possessed. His heart pounds against his ribs, aching as his eyes scan the halls, scan the rooms, searching each shadow to see where Arthur’s gone off to. His magic tugs at him and he pushes it down, swallowing back another shout of Arthur’s name. “I just want to talk with you!”

What about, not even Merlin knows. Still, words he can’t define sit in the back of his throat in a voice that’s not his— conversations and confessions and questions waiting for their time. 

A door across the hallway shuts. Merlin knows he shouldn’t but, still, he runs.

“Arthur, please, I just—” The door opens easily under Merlin’s touch, the lock pulling back without him having to think of it. “I just want—”

But the room is empty and Arthur’s gone. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asks softly, as if Arthur may appear before him at the slightest sound. “What—”

He trails off, his voice as small as dust as he looks around the bedchamber. It’s not Arthur’s— at least, it’s not the one he first met Arthur in— but Merlin pauses all the same.

This room is small, perhaps half the size as the rest. Only a bed, a wardrobe and a few small tables take up the space; even then, these things are modest. Thin white sheets across the bed, small books, and papers on the tables are all they have to offer.

These things, and a ragged red neckerchief at Merlin’s feet.

He can’t tell if it’s the same cloth Arthur had been holding but imagining that it is twists something sharp and icy through his guts. He’s stuck in place— frozen, caught with his eyebrows furrowed and his breath halfway down his throat. 

When he moves, moments later, it feels as if it takes a lifetime.

A lifetime to bend at the knees, to lower himself and see the small fabric with closer eyes. A lifetime to watch, to breathe, to see the lack of dust or dirt on something so mundane.

A lifetime to reach out and press his hand flat against it, expecting something cool— feeling warmth and heat instead.

This isn’t the dust connecting him to a man he doesn’t know. It’s not a mess to be brushed away. 

His fingers curl, as slow as everything else. Hesitantly, he takes it in his hand; he blinks and he can nearly feel the weight of it around his neck already. 

Soft. Gentle. Familiar. _ His— _

“Merlin?”

Lancelot calls out and Merlin jumps, the neckerchief falling back to the ground as he pulls himself up. Images and thoughts rip free from his mind, vanishing so quickly it’s easy to forget they were ever there.

“Merlin?” Lancelot calls again, his voice growing closer. 

“I’m here!” Merlin calls back, tearing his gaze from the useless scrap of cloth on the ground— as he looks away, he imagines a snapping sound in his mind, reality fitting back in place.

He’s tired. He’s scared. He’s paranoid. He’s overthinking things and fixating on nothing.

It’s easy to tell himself this. It’s easy to believe.

Still, somehow, it’s nearly impossible to walk away.

As he shuts the door and goes into the hall, it feels as if a part of him is still caught inside the room he’s left behind.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Merlin insists that he come to work every day, and he takes his time with the duties until it’s hours past when he should have returned home. Lancelot gives him strange looks throughout the week but, overall, says nothing of it. Merlin’s grateful. He’s come to appreciate Lancelot and the way he’ll help Merlin even when Merlin’s sure he doesn’t need the aid, or the way Lancelot likes to sit and talk with Merlin about his magic and what it’s like to have control over such a force.

Lancelot’s perhaps the kindest person Merlin’s ever met. As the week goes on, Merlin learns to trust him; he loses his fear of him.

In the same way he knows Lancelot, a traitorous part of his mind longs to know Arthur.

It’s not Arthur ignoring him that frustrates Merlin; it’s knowing that Arthur’s somewhere silently watching him. He’s caught him from the corner of his eye a few times, at least twice a day. Always hovering near a doorway, where the shadows hide the wounds he shouldn’t have. Always waiting by the stairs, shoulders tense as if always expecting a fight.

Merlin doesn’t chase after him anymore. He’s forgotten what he would say if he ever had the chance to speak.

It’s exactly a week after Merlin’s first encounter that Arthur speaks first.

It’s not directly at Merlin; in fact, it’s not for Merlin, at all. It’s nothing more than heated voices in a garden outside, muffled by petals and the soft evening breeze.

At first, it’s not Arthur speaking.

A girl laughs— the sound carries in as easily as perfume. Merlin, standing by the doorway in preparation to tend to the garden, pauses. 

“You can’t expect me not to come see for myself, even if it was only a dream.” Her voice wraps around Merlin’s body, snugly keeping him in place. Something deep within him aches, a hook wrapped around his throat like a hand whose fingerprints he can’t rub off. “But, really, how are you? I’m assuming you’re actually alive, but…”

“But I shouldn’t be. I know. That’s the entire point, Morgana.” Arthur, snapping. Arthur, nearly shouting. Arthur, sounding far too comfortable with someone whose voice causes Merlin’s hands to shake. “Gods, I feel like the dead, though.”

“I imagine!” Morgana says with another shocked laugh like smashing glass. Merlin edges closer, his body suddenly cold. Behind his eyes, he sees vibrant greens and golds, eyes that pierce as dangerously as a knife. “You know, if you want, I can try to help with that.”

“You think you can fix this?” Arthur, still upset— still sounding just as wounded as before.

“You’d be surprised what you learn when you’re given the chance.”

There’s a pause; Merlin imagines he can hear Arthur’s stuttered breath.

“No,” Arthur says at last. “No, not like _ that _.”

“Still so distrustful.” All warmth fades from Morgana’s voice as she scoffs. “Come, just let me try. Look, I don’t have to touch or anything. I just need—”

“Morgana, I said no!”

“Well, I’ve already started so stop being a child and just hold still!”

“Morgana—”

_ Magic _

Merlin has no words to say how he knows, only the sudden taste of something like crushed strawberries and ash in the air— sweet and burning, all at once. It doesn’t pull him forward; rather, it presses into him, caresses him, sinks into his skin until he’s gasping for something more than this burnt sugar breath. It’s not dark but it’s also not light. Above all, it’s simply tempting.

And Merlin’s magic reacts— fire on fire, lightning against the stormy sky he sees when he hears this girl’s voice.

Maybe it’s his own magic or his panic but, suddenly, he’s through the door. Suddenly, he’s in the garden with his heart in his throat, his hand raised as if his muscle memory knows something he doesn’t.

His eyes find Arthur before they find anything else.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks though it’s not as if he’s upset. Simply confused, simply stunned to see someone burst out of the house like this. “What are you doing?”

“I… I don’t…” Merlin’s hand falls back to his side slowly. His heart still refuses to calm. “I don’t know.”

Looking around the garden, he can’t name the danger he felt invading his mind. All he sees is Arthur, leaning against a tree with his hand pressed to his side. All he sees is a girl beside him, her gaze steadily held on Merlin.

Morgana, Merlin thinks. This must be Morgana.

She’s beautiful in a way Merlin hadn’t prepared for, dark hair resting like night across her shoulders— and if her hair is night, her eyes are earth. As certain as the forestry their color reflects, as strong as the ground Merlin feels shifting beneath his feet— as curious as any wild creature, Morgana gazes at him. Like Merlin’s had been, her hand is held out, nearly touching the place where Arthur’s own hand holds close to his side. Merlin’s skin chills at the sight.

And, then, Morgana’s hand falls as she smiles. 

“Don’t worry,” she says gently, fondly, adjusting her dress— green and plain, the same material Merlin’s mother makes his shirts from. “His pride may struggle all it likes but I’m simply trying to heal him.”

Merlin’s eyes flick towards Arthur’s, seeking confirmation for Morgana’s words. Arthur holds his gaze, eyes a fraction wider than before, but then his head dips in a stern nod. Tension uncoils from Merlin’s being but doesn’t let go entirely.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, will you please hold still so I can try to help you?” Morgana says, turning back towards Arthur with a faded glow lit within her eyes. Again, something hot strikes within Merlin— something shrieking of danger, of pain. 

He takes a step forward. He looks towards Arthur again.

“Are you sure that—”

“Why are you even out here?” Arthur snaps, taking a step away from both Merlin and Morgana, his original shock making way for something more callous and cold. “Really, Merlin, I know I should expect this from you, though—”

“Merlin?” The magic sinks from Morgana’s eyes and her head whips towards Merlin, her face a shade paler than before. She raises a hand, Arthur falling silent behind her as she turns towards Merlin entirely. “You said his name in my dream. You were saying… Well, it’s not my place to say, but…” She trails off, walking gently closer to Merlin. As she nears, Merlin’s fear fades into something more delicate, something more like anxiety at such a lovely girl walking so certainly towards him. “Aglain informed me I may find you. He said Emrys wouldn’t be too far from Arthur.”

“Morgana—” Arthur tries to speak, wincing as he steps forward.

Morgana turns, fixing him with a stern glare. “Go in and rest. I merely wish to speak with the boy.”

As he had done before, Arthur hesitates with his eyes on Merlin for a moment too long, a moment Merlin feels he may have been able to decipher in another world or another life. 

“I’ll still be outside,” Arthur says, at last, raising an eyebrow at Morgana as he walks off to the side, shaking his head. “So don’t get any funny ideas.” 

He moves past Morgana, past Merlin, reaching a part of the garden where the vines grow thick and the flowers seem to glow with their radiant shades. He rests against a tree, lowering himself into the mud with a grimace, his hand kept close to his ribs. Arthur’s eyes flicker over Merlin, not scanning but, rather, flinching across his body as if expecting Merlin to call out to him.

Instead, Merlin keeps quiet. His eyes turn towards Morgana and the strange symbols woven into her robes; his head swims and his throat aches with the need to understand it.

“You have magic,” he says softly, barely enough breath in his words to call it a whisper. He flinches once he realizes what he’s said, apologies already on his tongue. “Wait, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I just never— It’s always been only _ me _and—”

And Morgana doesn’t lash out. She doesn’t strike him or snap about laws and secrets. 

Morgana simply laughs, her lips wrapped around the happy sound in a way that warms and heats Merlin’s entire being.

“I understand how you feel. Trust me, I was born in the worst possible place to have magic,” she says, still giggling softly after her words, her eyes fondly watching Merlin as his jaw drops. She pauses a moment, her smile fading as she bites her lip and looks away. “You see, my home was Camelot for most of my life. I was born with magic but I didn’t recognize it until only a few years ago. Uth- The people I lived with, they would have never accepted me… Someone close to all of us had been killed by a sorceress and it turned their hearts against magic forever. I had no choice but to leave.”

“So you came here?” Merlin asks. 

Morgana shakes her head. “A young boy led me to a group of druids after I saved him. I’ve been able to accept and practice my magic with them.” She pauses, her eyes distant as she shakes her head with a soft smile. “It’s strange to think that there’s anyone out there who can accept it. I’m lucky to have found them.”

Merlin nods along. 

“And Arthur?” He asks quietly, trying and failing to keep from glancing over towards where Arthur’s leaned his head back with his eyes shut, chest rising and falling with each breath. “Does he have magic, too?”

It would make more sense; it would make things easier. Already, Merlin’s heart thrums like raindrops against puddles as he imagines learning with Arthur, talking with Arthur, finding someone who’ll finally understand.

“No,” Morgana says, cutting off Merlin’s thoughts, her voice low and more hesitant than before. “No, but he… I think he’s learning to accept it.” 

Her words inspire little confidence in Merlin but, as if realizing this, she quickly looks up with another snarky smile, forcing a laugh as she turns to shout in Arthur’s direction. “Though I’m certain he’d accept it sooner if he’d just let me heal him!”

“Wait, then, why does he—” 

Arthur cuts off Merlin’s questioning, standing with a frown large enough to shut Merlin up. 

“Do you plan on bothering him for much longer?” Arthur asks. “He does have work to do, you know.”

“I can’t be allowed just one conversation with Em—”

“No,” Arthur cuts her off, crossing the garden to join them once again. “Absolutely not.”

“I’d ask why not,” Morgana says after a slight pause, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, “but I imagine you wouldn’t tell me. It’s not like you ever trusted me before. Why that should change now just because… Well, I suppose I can’t pretend to know you.”

Arthur stares back at Morgana, his lips twisted as if there are sharp words he refuses to say. It twists something sick through Merlin’s gut— something that’s reflected in Morgana’s eyes when she, at last, turns away.

It’s something strange to see on this girl Merlin’s never met— these wary looks, this gentle sigh. She looks to Merlin, a warmth that’s both welcome and afraid running through his being under the weight of her gaze. She steps towards him, her hand outstretched.

Behind her, Arthur tenses. It lasts only a moment, and then Morgana’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing softly as she walks past.

“I can tell Arthur wants me to leave now,” she says. “I can’t tell whether you and I will meet again. In either case, I hope you remember me fondly. It’s been an honor, Emrys.”

Morgana pulls away and drags her hands down the front of her dress instead, flattening out the wrinkles. Her hair falls forward over her face as she looks down at her skirt.

Then, satisfied, she nods once at Merlin and walks through the door with a note of finality that hurts Merlin’s heart.

It’s an ache that fades into fear when he looks back to see Arthur staring at him.

At last, it’s only the two of them again. Why doesn’t the thought feel as wrong as it should?

“I should get back to work,” Merlin says, though he takes no moves to do so. 

Arthur makes an agreeing noise but, like Merlin, stays in his place.

Beneath the sun and sky— the branches and vines of plants placed to keep them from the view of passersby and travelers— the two see only each other, as still as the clouds that have paused above them. 

Merlin has work to do— horses to watch, rooms to clean, places to hide in and pretend he isn’t wondering about Arthur.

That he isn’t wondering about the man before him now.

Perhaps it’s these questions, these burdens like boulders in his brain, that keep him here. Perhaps it’s these mysteries that open his mouth and pull words forward like a magic of their own.

“Morgana,” he says, watching as Arthur cringes at the name. “She has magic.”

“Yes,” Arthur says slowly, warily. “I suppose she does.”

Does Arthur just collect creatures like Merlin, then? Does he hunt them down and request their aid? Merlin’s heard of men like this— like Cenred and his armies, trained and trusted to follow any order. He’s grown cold as the fear of such a fate warred against the fear of death by Camelot, each kingdom seeing him as something less than the human his mother assures him he still is.

But, then, Arthur doesn’t look at him like he’s training a pet. He doesn’t watch him with anything that doesn’t already echo Merlin’s thoughts— trepidation, hesitation, certainty, a familiarity Merlin can’t yet name.

Arthur doesn’t make sense in Merlin’s world, and it spins his head around.

“She said you accept magic. Or that you’re trying to.” Merlin’s breaths are too big for his lungs, filling his chest to the point of bursting before falling flat again. “Is that true?”

Arthur doesn’t answer at first. A lifetime passes between one breath and the next, holding them in the space between question and answer.

“When I was younger,” Arthur starts, at last, his words slow but sure, “I was raised to hate magic. It killed my mother, I was told. And, all my life, people with magic aimed to kill me. Some… Let’s just say a sorcerer’s to blame for my being here in this condition.”

The burning instinct to defend magic and its users glares hotly in Merlin’s chest, tampered down only by the coolness of Arthur’s eyes.

“But you don’t hate it,” Merlin says, not quite a question.

Arthur’s head tips to the side, considering Merlin’s words. 

“I don’t. But I’m not certain how much I trust it yet, either. Too many people in my life have been corrupted by magic, betraying and hurting me and the ones I love. Even Morgana…” At this, Arthur trails off, eyes shut against the world as if it can protect him from whatever realities it is he sees when he opens them once more. “What do you think, Merlin? Should I trust it?”

A soft cool breeze seeps into the air and sinks into Merlin’s bones, the kind of chill that has him pulling his jacket closer to his body despite the sun bearing down on him. He shifts in place, dirt kicking into the air.

He watches Arthur. He very nearly holds his breath.

It’s a simple question and, from anybody else, he’d know the answer. He’d know how to defend this part of him, this piece of his soul that shines gold with just a thought. He’d know how to respond without fear.

But before Arthur? This man he doesn’t know— this man he feels he’s seen before— Merlin simply feels as if he’s facing a test.

Arthur’s eyes darken. Merlin’s words sink back down his throat; his mind races and his heart burns, both certain that telling Arthur anything about his magic can only end poorly.

“I still have work to do,” he says instead, watching as Arthur’s eyebrows furrow together. “Shelves to dust, floors to wash, laundry to finish, I—”

“Go, then,” Arthur snaps, a bitter smile twisting his lips into something sharp and pained. “Do your work if that’s all you care for. I have my answer.”

He has _ an _answer— it's not so clear if it’s for the question he had asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Merlin says, twisting his hands before him. Arthur barks out a laugh, as harsh as the ground beneath their feet.

“You’re not meant to understand,” he says. Though he’s yet to look away from Merlin’s eyes, there’s something new in his expression that seems as if he’s never looked at Merlin before. “You’re just meant to do as you’re told.”

“Arthur—”

“Go.” Arthur turns, waving his arm in some dismissive manner. “As you said, there’s still work to be done.”

Yes, but it’s not the work Merlin wants to do. He wants to fix this, to understand this. He wants to answer the questions Arthur’s not asking, if only because he knows these are the questions that Merlin has been wondering, too.

But Arthur’s back is turned and nothing about him says he wants to hear Merlin’s voice right now.

Merlin faces the doorway once more, his skin prickling as he turns his back on Arthur. The very air around him begs him not to leave.

Still, Merlin grits his teeth together and huffs out a heavy breath.

He leaves Arthur in the garden alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I won't make you all wait so long for the next chapter!
> 
> Also, I hope that this all makes some sort of sense. Obviously, there are some questions that won't be answered yet but I'm hoping the rest of it isn't so confusing that this isn't enjoyable? 
> 
> Either way, let me know what you think! Comments give me life <3


	4. Someone Beautiful Is Cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, chapter titles come from Rigoletto. And I have a playlist on spotify for this fic! Let me know if you'd be interested in me sharing that :)

Will’s talking before Merlin’s fully finished his walk back home from Arthur’s, rambling on as he falls in step beside Merlin. He’d come from the fields, grass sticking to his cheek with dirt across his knuckles. Merlin’s vaguely aware of guilt poking at his skin, a guilt that reminds him of the work he’d be doing if he wasn’t busying himself with strangers and sorceresses.

Still, his half-hearted apology sticks in his throat as Will rants on. Merlin’s head rocks up and down in a nod he barely commits to, Will’s words lost as Merlin does his best not to think.

Because, if he thinks, he thinks of Arthur and the questions he won’t ask. He thinks of magic flowing freely through a garden not as hidden from the world as it should be. He thinks of things he’s been taught, things he’s been told, things he’s kept locked in the back of his mind for all his life.

If he thinks, he thinks of Arthur— and Arthur is never an easy thought.

“—fire-breathing sheep with four eyes and twelve heads,” Will says. “I had to kill it with a spoon, would you believe that?”

“Fascinating, I— Wait, what?” Merlin stops short, turning to Will with a dropped jaw and widened eyes. Will doesn’t respond, and silence fills the space between them until Merlin huffs out a heavy breath, letting his shoulders fall as he looks away from Will’s expectant face. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“More so pointing out the fact that you weren’t listening to a word I’ve said,” Will says, nudging Merlin’s arm. “Come on, I thought we were friends. But suddenly you start working for the stranger outside of town and now you’re too good for me, is that it?”

He says it with a light tone but Merlin knows Will enough to recognize the thread of hurt woven into each word, red-hot and ready to ignite. He’s not so certain he knows how to defuse it.

“Sorry,” he tries anyway, shrugging helplessly as they continue their walk. It’s not too far from Merlin’s home but they walk slow, side by side as if simply returning from a game of chase in the trees like when they were young. “Things have been weird and I haven’t really had the chance to get used to all of it, I suppose.”

“I’ll say,” Will scoffs, not letting Merlin off that easy. “What’s with that guy, anyway? Is he as weird up close as he is from here?”

“Um,” Merlin says intelligently, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t see him much.”

“Oh?” Will’s eyebrow raises. “I think that counts as strange, Merls.”

“Some may say that, I guess,” Merlin says. 

“Then what do you call it?” Will asks, his steps coming to a stop. Merlin pauses with him, turning back with an answer on his tongue— an answer he doesn’t yet know but also one he fails to say before Will cuts him off. “Because the ones who don’t call him strange say he’s a danger.”

It’s something cool and warm at once that rushes over Merlin’s skin, a sharp-edged feeling of defense and fear that keeps him in place— something that feels like he’s in that garden again, standing before Morgana and her magic, watching something terrible look beautiful. 

It's something that feels like there’s a part of his mind that knows the answers better than he does.

“Who says that?” He asks, stepping forward, biting back the defensive tone curling around his tongue. 

Will is his friend— his best friend, his only friend. Will knows his secret, knows  _ him _ .

And, yet, standing here with Arthur’s name unspoken between them, Merlin feels further from Will than ever before.

Will shrugs, either unaware or uncaring of the rift opening beneath their feet. 

“Folks around here, no one specific,” he says, glancing around the homes and workers. “They know, you know. About how he got you to work for him.”

Everything warm becomes cold, freezing around Merlin’s bones and locking him in place, his lungs filling with ice so sharp he can barely breathe.

“They… They know, then, about—”

“Oh, gods, Merlin, no,” Will says, though it’s no more comforting than his past statements. “If anyone knew about you and your tricks, there’d be flocks of them running off to Camelot to collect their coins by now.” He says it with a bittersweet laugh, a joke passed between them that grows less funny with each day. “No, they just know that he threatened you and your mother.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, slowly regaining the ability to breathe again. “Well, if that’s all, then…”

“I don’t think you’re understanding,” Will pushes, stepping forward until he’s in Merlin’s space, speaking quick and low with his words brushing hotly over Merlin’s skin. “They’re saying he  _ threatened _ you both. That he has a lackey with a sword that does his bidding, some man who wanders the village without a word. Arthur himself is a ghost, Merlin, and no one likes what they don’t understand.” He pauses, pulling back with pink cheeks. “They’re afraid he’ll be like Kanen, here to terrorize and collect what doesn’t belong to him. We were lucky enough with your magic last time, but would you be able to defend Ealdor again?”

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” Merlin says, drawing away. “If I have to protect my home, you know I’ll always do that. But… But I don’t think we have to worry about that from Arthur. He’s strange but he’s no danger.”

Will eyes him warily. “You say that as if you actually know him.”

“I—” 

Merlin can’t help the way his heart pounds in his chest or the way his breaths tear through his throat as if he’d been running. He can’t help the aching in his head or the sudden blur over his eyes, painting everything into dizzy shades and shapes. He stumbles back a step, sickness crawling through his gut.

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t know Arthur, but—”

“But what?” Will asks, leaning close to Merlin. He speaks harshly but there’s a worry in his eyes, a concern pressing against his gaze as he reaches for Merlin’s arm. “Merlin, what?”

Merlin pulls away, only barely regretting the hurt across Will’s face as he does so.

“He’s good,” Merlin says, the words coming from someplace outside his own mind, someplace where he can pretend he knows this Arthur and this Arthur knows him— a place where these words are more than hope. “Arthur is strange and cold but he’s not here to hurt anyone. I’m sure of it.”

“Are you saying that to convince me or you?” Will asks after a moment, his shoulders tense and his jaw tight.

Merlin meets his gaze with a hardened look of his own.

“I don’t need to convince anyone,” he snaps, turning from Will with a harsh sound. “Arthur will prove it well enough on his own.”

Will doesn’t follow after him— he’s never been the type to chase after Merlin during a fight, more likely to wait a few hours before approaching. Still, loneliness closes in on Merlin’s skin like clothes he can’t quite pull off, holding close to his body with sticky hands and uncomfortably warm breaths.

Behind him, Will laughs.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he calls after him. “You were never one to know how to be careful.”

Merlin won’t admit it but his stomach turns further at Will’s words.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Merlin’s days pass in silence. Will doesn’t speak to him for the better part of a week, something Merlin begrudgingly admits he deserves. His mother becomes busy helping others with the fields. Lancelot spends more time outside of Arthur’s home than inside it.

And Arthur? This time, it’s Merlin avoiding him.

Arthur doesn’t hide away as much as he used to, but he doesn’t make any attempts to speak if Merlin doesn’t do so first. Instead, he waits in doorways and against the walls, arms folded across his chest and his eyes always on something just past Merlin’s head. A few times, one of them opens their mouth as if to speak; each time, they cover it with a yawn or cough, wandering into another space away from the other.

The distance, however purposeful, prods at Merlin until he feels raw and red.

It’s during one such lonely day— an afternoon of clearing away the horses’ messes near the gardens— when something snaps. Something almost tangible pulling tight across Merlin’s ribs, threatening to break if he takes a breath too big.

Arthur stands in the shadows. He pretends to watch his garden, face turned towards a few birds bouncing from branch to branch, but Merlin has seen his eyes turn his way. He’s caught the distress etched between his brows.

This time, when Arthur parts his lips, Merlin tosses the shovel to the side and faces him.

“If you cough again, I’m going to demand a week off so I don’t catch whatever you have,” he snaps, the tightness in his chest breaking at the same time the shovel hits the ground.

Arthur lifts a brow but he doesn’t back away from the challenge.

“Take the days if you need them,” he says. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how tired you appear to be.”

Merlin scoffs. He might have expected to be called on his own diversion tactics if not for how he half expected for the conversation to be something important.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping towards Arthur— not too close, but close enough that he feels better than he did when they were apart. “Were you giving me permission to quit this labor I’ve been forced into?”

It’s only partially a joke and Arthur only partially smiles, his eyes heavy with a melancholy that weighs down the rest of his expression.

“Do you really feel as if you’ve been forced to stay here?” He asks, head tipping ever so gently to the side.

Merlin matches his action, a hand on his hip to emphasize the point. “Do you think there was ever any other option when you brought up—”

He trails off, tongue catching between his teeth before he could say anything about what he is and what he can do.

Arthur’s eyes fall deeper into that somber hue, watching Merlin warily.

A moment passes— another follows. Their eyes wait on the other’s, saying things Merlin can’t quite pronounce.

Finally, Arthur looks away. Merlin can’t keep himself from stepping forward, every bit of his insides aching for the connection to return.

“My friend, Will, said the people have been talking about you.” He speaks slowly, his steps more certain than his voice as he approaches Arthur— the way one might approach a cornered creature, a frightened child. “They think you might be dangerous or a threat. Because of what you did to get me here.”

Merlin says no more, the unspoken question hanging heavily in the air between them.

Though he doesn’t look back up, Arthur still smiles. It’s a sad curve of his lips, sharp but not in any harmful way. 

When he speaks, it’s with the same woeful emotion he wears on his mouth.

“These people have nothing to fear from me,” he says. His eyes turn towards Merlin, glimmering despite the sadness upon them. “It’s not any of them I’m interested in.”

And, oh.  _ Oh.  _ Something within Merlin’s lungs collapses only to swell back up, hot and heavy and thrumming with life.

When he breathes, it tastes like magic. 

Arthur steps forward, wincing as he limps. Some unknown injury had appeared once more upon him, a wound that's left his shirts stained red. Still, he stands before Merlin; and Merlin, in all his wit and snark, finds he can’t say anything more.

“What else?” Arthur prompts, his voice as slight as the distance between them. It’s nearly a whisper; nearly a ragged breath. “What more do you wish to know?”

Merlin wants to know things he can’t say, wants to put words to the dreams that come and go like fog in the morning. He wants to know how it is Arthur says his name like he knows more than the sound, how it is Merlin says his and knows it’s right.

He wants to know everything but, just the same, he wants to know nothing, at all. That thing in his chest— that magic, that light pulling him towards Arthur— seems to say that the smallest push is all it would take for everything in his world to change.

So Merlin says nothing of the way he feels or the way his heart tugs. Mouth dry, palms wet, he shrugs and looks away.

“You asked me whether or not you should trust magic,” he says instead. “Why does it matter to you whether you trust it or not? Why change your views now?”

Arthur tenses, his shoulders drawing back and his jaw tightening. Still, he doesn’t move away.

“You say it as if it’s impossible to do so,” Arthur says, his voice hanging on the edge of an accusation. 

Merlin looks back to him, frowning. “Not impossible. More… Strange. I’ve never heard of anyone changing their beliefs on magic.”

“That may be because no one’s met the people I have.” Arthur’s voice is low again, as if he’s speaking to himself. Merlin holds back his words, waiting for more. Arthur pauses, eyes flicking towards the ground, before shaking his head and looking into Merlin’s eyes again. “I’m not lying when I say I’ve seen the most loving people become cruel in the name of magic. But it’s also just as true to say that I’ve seen those become better— nobler, even— for the same reason. I want to understand both sides. I owe magic my life in every sense— it’s only fair I understand just what that means.”

“And have you understood anything yet?” Merlin asks.

There’s almost a smile on Arthur’s face. “I feel as if the answer should be yes but, somehow, it still puzzles me. There’s something about what I’ve seen… I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Merlin can’t help the small quirk of a grin that twists into the corner of his lips anymore than he can help his own voice when he teases Arthur. “Well, of all the things to fathom out, you certainly haven’t picked the easiest.”

A beat passes, a gentle pause where Arthur’s eyes light up for just a moment.

“Come on,  _ Mer _ lin,” he says. “I could have told you that.”

Merlin laughs. It’s nice, something airy freeing from his chest. 

Arthur’s own smile remains, something brighter than Merlin’s seen on him before.

“Alright, then, your turn,” Arthur says, shifting so he can walk along the small dirt path carved through the bushes and trees of his garden. Merlin follows; it’s not so much Arthur walking off as it is the two of them partaking in each other’s company with all the comfort of old friends. “Why does it matter to you what I think of magic?”

Ah, why, indeed? Why should Merlin’s heart catch in the middle of a beat each time he wonders whether or not Arthur sees him as a man or monster? Why should his breath pain his throat and chest whenever he sees Arthur’s lips shape the word—_ magic magic magic_— like something he dare not touch? 

Why should he look away from Arthur’s eyes now as he contemplates this answer? Why should he fear rejection from a man he only just met?

Dirt and rocks crunch beneath their feet. Birds whistle as they flitter from tree to tree. In his hesitation, Merlin imagines he can even hear the clouds move past.

_ I want you to see magic the way I do,  _ Merlin may say, eyes earnest and voice filled with fear.  _ I want to show you how beautiful it— I— can be. I want you to know you’re safe with me; I want you to know your trust is well-placed in me. _

_ I want you _

“Alright, then,” Arthur says. From the corner of his eye, Merlin watches Arthur’s smile drop. It doesn’t disappear entirely, but the fading light is enough to tuck guilt beneath Merlin’s tongue, an apology he doesn’t dare say. “An easier question— how’s your life here in Ealdor? Are you quite content?”

They’ve left the garden, wandering aimlessly into the forested area around the trees. Merlin doesn’t pause, though he has the sense Arthur doesn’t know they’re no longer on any set path. Arthur regards each tree as if asking for direction; his eyes pull into the distance, seeing someplace other than here.

“I’ve no reason to say I’m not,” Merlin answers. “I have my mum and Will— they’re great people, really. Without them, I’d have nothing.”

“Surely you must have other friends.” Arthur says it as if he already knows the answer.

“Being a bastard— and a strange one, at that— doesn’t win you much favor here,” Merlin answers with a wry smile, the sting from such words faded but not gone completely. “As I said, my mum and Will are the only great things about this place. They give me a place to belong.”

“And do you?” Arthur slows until he’s at a stop, staring through the trees and down at some path winding through them, cutting across from him and Merlin like a river long dried up. He turns, looking towards Merlin. “Do you belong here?”

“I—” Magic and dreams and strange feelings in the pit of his guts. Merlin’s mouth dries. “No. It’s my home, but it’s not where I belong.”

Something fierce fills Arthur’s eyes. “Have you ever thought of leaving? Finding somewhere you should really, truly, be?”

“I was meant to go to Camelot some years back,” Merlin says, eyebrows furrowing together as he remembers the hushed conversations he once had with his mother, the certainty in which she insisted he should leave. Unlike the more recent discussion about his going, he remembers fully agreeing with her at the time. 

Even now, he can feel the bag he packed, weak leather against the palm of his hand. He remembers the words he shared with Will, the promise to return should he have the chance. He remembers… He remembers…

“Why didn’t you go?” Arthur asks.

Dirt and dust on his trousers, sweat beading along his forehead as the sun watched him leave. Travelers passing him by, teaching him what trees to follow and where best to make camp.

Merlin’s eyes stray towards the path before him.

“That’s where you’re walking,” he mutters. “You’re walking towards Camelot.”

Because Merlin knows this ground like a memory. He knows the air, the birds, the sky. The shadows around them are the same shapes as the clouds were that day.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, voice rising as he grips Merlin’s arm. “ _ Why didn’t you go to Camelot?” _

He didn’t? But Merlin can remember the leaving, the traveling, the going. He remembers it all, he’s sure. Walking over a hill and then…

“I don’t know,” he says. Something in his head pounds. Something in his stomach twists.  _ I left for Camelot and then— _

“You cannot undo this curse so easily!”

It’s a roar of thunder through Merlin’s mind, an insidious voice echoing off trees and ground, bringing him to his knees with a pained gasp as his thoughts snap back to himself. Like a horse let loose, his almost-memories scatter, trampling over his body like rubble as he trembles.

There’s no time, though, to process when a man runs towards them, a dagger raised high.

Arthur’s there in the reflection of the blade, arm raised uselessly to shield him from the blow. Teeth grit together, his other hand held to his chest where Merlin knows wounds stain his skin; his eyes harden like a warrior watching battle begin.

The blade comes down.

“No!” Merlin cries. Because Arthur can’t defend himself now, not hurt the way he is. And he can’t die, not with so many unanswered questions, so many unfulfilled promises. “Arthur!”

And time seems to slow— slow enough for Merlin to see the markings of a hired assassin on the man’s clothes, slow enough for Merlin to raise his own hand in return.

Slow enough for Merlin to see a burst of gold reflect off the blade as he shouts and tosses the man away without so much as a word.

The man flies back, hitting the ground with enough force to render him unconscious. Merlin slumps back down, the speed of time colliding with his ribs at the same time Arthur falls beside him, hand tight around Merlin’s arm.

For a moment— just a moment and, yet, barely that— Merlin wonders why he’s finally chosen now to show Arthur even a fraction of his magic.

“You fool,” Arthur snaps, tugging Merlin to his feet and then to a run. “You utter fool.”

Later— much later— Merlin will answer his own question with the realization that he’s been afraid to show Arthur anything like this. A lifetime of hiding cannot be undone by one assassin’s blade; this was the magic’s idea, not Merlin’s.

Still, he runs with Arthur until the trees are thin, until the dirt is familiar and Arthur’s home is in sight. He lets Arthur pull him inside, lets Arthur lock the door and peer out the window with curses under his breath. 

Then, he lets Arthur turn on him with red cheeks and fiery eyes.

“Anyone could have seen you out there! You think it's good to be caught and killed?” Arthur shouts, barely leaving room for breath between his yells. “You didn’t even finish the man, for God’s sake, what should I do if he returns? If he brings a witchfinder or one of Camelot’s knights?”

Only halfway through Arthur’s chiding does Merlin realize that it’s not anger painting his words, not really. It sounds more like his mother reminding him of Cenred’s captured sorcerers and the bodies she’s seen burned in Camelot. It sounds like Will cuffing him over the head, the same look in his eyes whenever he asked  _ what would I do without you? _

Arthur’s not angry; he’s afraid.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says anyway, reaching for Arthur only because something in his skin feels that’s the right thing to do— something yearning to ease the way his limp has grown, to understand where these scars are coming from. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Arthur catches Merlin’s hand midair, gentler than his voice. He breathes— heavy, hot, frightened— and the two watch each other with wide eyes.

Slowly, Arthur looks down, flipping Merlin’s hand to expose the palm. He drags a finger across the line in the middle, as cautious as a man looking to cross a roaring stream.

“You saved me,” he says, tracing veins that show through the pale skin, dancing over calluses and scratches yet to heal. Can he feel the magic pulsing— purring at his touch— beneath it all? “Why?”

Merlin keeps his gaze on Arthur’s hand over his own. Arthur has nice hands, he thinks— strong in form but gentle, so gentle, in actions like this.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I wish I could answer you, Arthur, but all I know is that it felt like I should.”

“You felt it.” Arthur’s fingers never falter, drawing symbols now that Merlin can’t see. “What else?”

“What else?” Merlin repeats. “There is nothing else. Only what I felt and what I did. There’s nothing more.”

He feels the way Arthur frowns but only because it’s the same frown on his own face. 

“Only what you felt and what you did,” Arthur echoes, his touch becoming lighter, slower. Any longer and Merlin imagines he may fall asleep standing here in Arthur’s home. 

“Yes.” A breath, a sigh.

Arthur’s touches stop. His fingertips hover over Merlin’s palm before he turns his own hand, looking at his skin. Does he expect to see gold staining his nails?

“Go home,” Arthur says, at last, as they both ease their hands back to their sides. 

Before, Merlin may have taken the dismissal as a sign of something he’s done wrong. Now, though, he sees only the conflict in Arthur’s eyes.

He dips his head— it would almost be a bow but, then, why would he bow to Arthur? Still, Arthur’s breath catches when Merlin looks back up.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Merlin says.

Arthur nods, his own head dipping in the way Merlin’s had. 

“Yes,” Arthur says. “You will.”

There are words still stuck in Merlin’s throat even as he turns. There’s still a restless and reckless buzzing of his magic beneath his skin even as he takes a breath and looks towards the front door.

There’s still Arthur’s name on the tip of his tongue even as he walks away.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

That night, Merlin wakes to the sound of someone hissing his name outside. Before he’s fully snuck out, a jacket pulled on over his nightclothes, he already knows it’s Will.

Will can ignore and avoid him for the better part of a week but Merlin will be damned before he ignores his best friend’s voice— particularly when he recognizes the mischievous tone hidden beneath the whispers.

“Will?” Merlin asks once outside, keeping his voice low in fear of waking his mother. “What on earth are you doing?”

Will’s smile is a dangerous, treacherous one— a smile filled with pranks and bad ideas.

“Some of the other boys wanted to sneak over to your friend’s place to figure out just how bad or good he is,” Will says, completely ignoring the spluttering Merlin jumps into at the words. “I came to see if you wanted to join.”

“Join?” Merlin’s cheeks are hot, and he’s dressed only in an oversized jacket and the clothes he fell asleep in but he still manages to cause Will’s smile to drop just a bit with the sharpness of his tone. “Have you gone mad? Why would I ever want to join you in something like that? And why would you ever want to do that, anyway?”

“Come on, you used to be fun,” Will says, sounding exactly the way he did when they were kids and Merlin had just started hiding his magic. “It’s not like we’re gonna get caught. Just gonna sneak up to the windows and see if we can find out what makes this bloke so special to you.”

“He’s not special to me!” God, it even sounds like a lie as Merlin’s saying it, cheeks warmer than before. “I just know that he’s not the monster you think he is and so he doesn’t deserve troublemakers like you or the others waking him up in the middle of the night.”

“Right, but you’re the only one who ever sees him,” Will points out, an eyebrow raised. “And you never see him at night, do you? I heard most witches and wizards do their evil rituals at night.”

A beat. Merlin clears his throat.

“Right, well, that’s a fun rumor,” he says. “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to go back to my evil spell-casting inside and—”

“Don’t be like that. You know you’re the exception to everything,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “And, for the record, I don’t actually think your new friend is magic. If he was, he wouldn’t need you doing his work. Nah, I’ve got my bets that he’s some shunned noble come to take his frustration out on us poor villagers.”

“Hm, more likely but still just as wrong,” Merlin says, crossing his arms. “Arthur’s not plotting anything, okay? I’d tell you if he was.”

“You’d tell me if you  _ knew _ ,” Will says. “But you don’t, so you can’t prove anything.”

Merlin’s almost too tired to glare. Almost. “One day, I’ll be able to say something and have people trust me.”

“Doubt it,” Will says, earning an affronted gasp from Merlin. He carries on anyway, waving away the offended sound. “If you want to prove yourself, come along. You can show us that we’re all wrong about this guy, and then gloat about it for years to come.”

It’s still a horrible idea but Merlin’s frown lessens just a little. “I don’t gloat.”

“Because you’re never right,” Will says. “Now, are you coming or not?”

Merlin gave up on really fighting Will’s stubbornness a long time ago. Still, this has never made Will’s smirk any less annoying whenever Merlin gives in.

“Whatever,” Merlin says, dropping his arms and looking away. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Will leads him down a path Merlin already knows, sneaking through the trees to meet up with some of the other boys in town, younger lads who usually follow Ben around in fear of becoming his next target. They’re not bold enough to say anything to Merlin when they see him, but their eyes still widen and their lips still twitch. One short boy with an abundance of freckles leans over to Will, nudging him and not at all discreetly asking if they really have to hang out with someone as strange and outcast as Merlin tonight.

Will shoves the boy away with a dirty scowl, his eyes darting back to check on Merlin. Whether it’s to see if he’s alright or if he’s going to curse someone, Merlin can’t tell. Either way, Merlin keeps his mouth shut— something he learned to do with boys like this long ago. 

As a group, they do their best to sneak their way to Arthur’s home. With each cracked branch beneath stumbling feet, and with each snicker at the noise they make, Merlin feels the mistake of it all building within his guts.

But the boys around him continue on and the pit in Merlin’s stomach is more than irritation. It tugs him forward, following their haphazard steps; it pulls at his skin, urging him towards Arthur.

When Arthur’s home finally appears, a stone fortress in the dark, their group stops. Merlin’s breath pauses in his throat, an unknown chill passing over his skin.

He shouldn’t be here and, yet, his feet keep him exactly in place.

“See, there’s no light anywhere,” Merlin says in a soft tone, his whisper as gentle as wind. “Unless sleeping has suddenly become a crime, I don’t see anything to be suspicious of.”

Davie— one of Ben’s newer followers in town, a boy with teeth bigger than his bratty voice and a permanently curled lip— looks towards Merlin with a disbelieving glance.

“Well, of course they wouldn’t be doing anything outside, you moron,” he says, sounding just as if he’s made this new rule up on the spot. “That’s why we’re breaking in.”

“Breaking in?” Merlin recoils from the suggestion, back bumping into a tree as he twists to look at Will. “You never said anything about breaking in.”

“I—” Will, at least, seems as surprised as Merlin feels, though his tone hides it better. “It wasn’t my suggestion.”

“Come on.” Davie starts wandering forward, the others following with wary glances at one another. “You should know all about this place, eh, Merlin? Be good for something for once and tell me, are we more likely to get in through a window or a door?”

“None,” Merlin hisses, his heart pounding nervously the closer they get to the door. If he was smart, he’d turn and run before they’re caught. He’d clean his hands of this mess and turn away. Somehow, he continues to follow Davie closer and closer to the front door. “Seriously, this isn’t a good idea. If someone sees us…” Merlin trails off with a shudder.

They’re closer to the door now, close enough for Merlin to imagine he can feel Arthur just behind it.

“Who’s going to see us? If you want to run home and hide under your covers, I won't stop you. But the rest of us are going to see this through,” Davie says. “Anyway, Ben wanted me to see if I can take something from here and I’m not going until I do. So, if we just get the front door open—”

Merlin doesn’t see the man. He doesn’t hear him.

He simply turns and knows that the assassin from before is here.

“Will.” He grabs Will’s arm with a sudden force, holding tight as his eyes scan the dark. “Will, you need to get everyone away from here.”

“What?” Will doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look at Merlin with the same incredulity his voice holds. “What’s wrong?”

Something in the shadows shifts; something lingers beneath a window— something slow and dark and dangerous.

Merlin’s words are a shuddering breath. “I’m not sure.”

And he isn’t. He isn’t sure how he knows this man is here or why he cares so much. He isn’t sure why his heart pounds with something more than fear, something more than the simple tricks he plays with glowing eyes and senseless thoughts. He’s not sure why he’s edging closer to the danger even as Will turns back, snapping at the others to make them leave. He’s not sure of much these days.

But he is certain that this man wants to hurt Arthur. And, though he may not be able to say why, Merlin knows on a level deeper than blood and bone that he cannot let that happen.

A figure in the shadows shifts at the same time Davie shoves Will, their voices rising.

And, before Merlin, the figure stands. The man from before, his eyes dark and cruel as he takes in the scene before him— as he looks to Merlin and seems to recognize him as the one who had tossed him aside before.

This time, though, the mercenary doesn’t raise any blade. When he lifts his arms, he’s holding a bow instead.

Merlin’s blood runs cold.

“Run!” He doesn’t care about drawing attention as he turns, shooing away the other boys as the first arrow is fired, embedding itself in a tree somewhere over Will’s head. It’s all the warning the group needs as they scream and flee, sprinting in different directions as the mercenary reaches for another arrow, as he stalks after them and raises the weapon again.

Merlin runs behind the others, his attention half on making sure they disappear into the trees and half on making sure he’s leading the man away from the house. It’s no grand plan but it will keep the others safe.

It will keep Arthur safe.

He pauses once the rest have become nothing more than shadows, their voices fading as they shout for one another on their way back to their homes. His chest burns; his legs grow weak.

Behind him, he hears another arrow fire.

Merlin turns and the world seems to slow, seems to drag time like a second-thought as he watches the arrow draw nearer and nearer to him. Spinning through the air, the point aimed for his heart.

He raises a hand and jerks his wrist to the side, an action that feels more like memory than instinct as magic rushes from his being, tugging the arrow off its course. Away from his chest.

But not away from him entirely.

The pain across his shoulder isn’t a sudden one as the arrow flies past, cutting into the flesh there before continuing on its way to a tree just behind him. No, it’s more like a burn— like something that stings the more he thinks of it, like something that’s laid upon him rather than cut into his skin.

The force and shock of it has him stumbling back. Over his feet and past the trees, through the bushes and—

And into a chest— a body— as strangely familiar as his own.

Arthur holds tight to Merlin’s arms as he steadies him back onto his feet, time still slowed but not as if by magic— as if by Arthur’s gaze alone, as if by the brush of his breath against Merlin’s lip when Merlin makes the mistake of turning to look back at him.

Then Arthur lets go, something unnamed and unknown within Merlin reaching back out for that touch even as he steps away.

Arthur’s hands are empty, free of any blade or protection, but he looks at them anyway. Even in the dark, Merlin can see the coating of blood across Arthur’s right palm. Merlin's blood on Arthur's skin.

When Arthur forms a fist, when he looks up with fire in his eyes, Merlin barely breathes.

“Lancelot!” Arthur calls out. “Here!”

What happens next is a flurry of weapons and scrambling limbs, Lancelot appearing from the trees like a knight, his sword high as he cuts down the mercenary-- as the unknown man drops the bow, searching for his dagger a second too late. It’s less of a fight and more an execution, Lancelot’s moves certain where the other man’s are frenzied, panicked as he’s caught off-guard.

Lancelot’s barely sweating by the time the assassin’s fallen, lifeless, to the ground.

“I can remove the body before the villagers see it and start talking,” Lancelot says, walking towards Arthur and Merlin with no concern of his bloodied sword. It’s a strange contrast, the way this warrior looks so kindly upon Merlin. “Are you both alright?”

“Yes,” Merlin says at the same time Arthur scoffs and grabs hold of Merlin’s arm beneath his wound.

“An arrow got him,” he says to Lancelot, tugging on Merlin’s jacket and sleeve enough to check on the wound. He inspects for a few seconds, prodding the skin around the area with a gentleness that should not exist in such a seemingly strong person. “We can fix this back at the house. You’re coming with me.”

Merlin’s only partially aware of his own protests, his cheeks warm as he assures them both that he’s fine. The rest of his attention, though, is on the way Arthur’s hand wraps gently over his upper arm, guiding him back with no room for struggle.

Maybe it’s the blood loss, but Merlin’s head suddenly feels a bit too light.

Arthur says nothing as he leads Merlin back into the house, the area dimly lit by candles and starlight leaking in through the windows. Merlin follows with his head ducked, his complaints having faded after a particularly stern look from Arthur.

Once the doors have been shut and locked, Merlin turns towards the small table in the kitchen, reaching for his sleeve to tug the fabric away from the wound. Arthur, though, keeps him close— keeps him walking by his side as, together, they enter Arthur’s room.

“I don’t not appreciate your clear, uh, concern. But I’m fine, and this just seems excessive,” Merlin says as Arthur plops him down on the edge of the bed.

“Stay here. We’re low on our supplies but we should have enough for that cut,” Arthur says, ignoring Merlin entirely. 

Merlin stares, trying one last time to be heard. “I just said I’m fine.”

He’s not entirely surprised by Arthur’s scoff or the way he turns to look through one of the drawers. Arthur mutters to himself as he searches, murmuring about idiots trying to be heroes. Though he doesn’t mention Merlin’s name, Merlin can’t help but feel a bit affronted. Affronted and, perhaps, a bit embarrassed.

Merlin’s eyes follow Arthur as he prepares supplies. He works with the certainty of a man who’s dressed a wound before, and Merlin’s eyes venture across the expanse of Arthur’s back. Like Merlin, he’s dressed in a simple nightshirt and trousers, bandages and angry red scars showing through in the places where the shirt draws tight over the skin. Merlin swallows around the concern clogging his throat. It can be a bit too easy to believe Arthur’s alright, he discovers. It can be easy to forget he's human, as mortal as the rest of them.

Guilt makes a place beside the frustration from before, whispering that he’s taking bandages and salve from an injured man. Arthur’s slow motions seem to scream at Merlin, highlighting each little flinch or cringe when he twists a certain way. Merlin bites his tongue, uncertain whether or not he should look away. 

As if only to spite him, Merlin’s shoulder twinges. He sucks in a sharp breath, quiet but still enough for Arthur to turn back with his hands full of bandages and a small jar of paste.

Arthur walks back over to Merlin, placing the supplies beside him. 

“You should take off your shirt so I can better see the wound,” Arthur says, his fingertips resting softly against the edges of Merlin’s jacket. 

It’s the same pinkness in Arthur’s cheeks— the warmth Merlin feels in his own face and body— that eases any hesitation. Merlin sheds his jacket and lifts his shirt over his head, his breath hitching as he aggravates the cut.

Laying his clothes out on his lap, he turns back to face Arthur. His left hand reaches instinctively for his right shoulder as if to wipe away the clotting blood or see if he can smooth away the pain. 

But then there’s Arthur’s touch again, more shocking than any arrowhead, and he lowers Merlin’s arm to examine the cut himself. Concern that Merlin hadn’t noticed before— pinched around Arthur’s lips and eyes— eases into relief, and a small smile fits onto his lips.

“Your first battle wound,” Arthur says gently, nearly to himself. He clears his throat, shaking his head and blinking away whatever strange emotion it was that filled his eyes. “It’s likely that this will scar, but that should be the worst of it.”

Merlin returns his smile. “See, I told you. Nothing to worry about.”

“It’s not polite to say ‘I told you so’, Merlin,” Arthur says, lifting an eyebrow as he looks from the cut and into Merlin’s eyes. The glance only lasts for a heartbeat before Arthur’s shaking his head again, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

It falls silent as Arthur begins washing the wound with gentle pressure, wetting a small cloth with water from a nearby pitcher. They both watch the steadiness of Arthur’s hands, the ease with which he handles the blood. Merlin holds still, afraid to breathe too deep and disrupt Arthur’s work. 

Merlin’s eyes travel from Arthur’s hands, though, and up towards his face. Unaware of Merlin’s eyes on him, Arthur’s expression has faded into one of concentration and kindness, a gentle sort of determination in his eyes. The tension so commonly wrapped around him has loosened, and Merlin’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as he gazes upon him. He can’t help the way his attention falls upon Arthur’s mouth— the pale pink lips, dry but full and somehow always hiding a smile in the corner. Merlin’s gaze follows the curve of his jaw, down to Arthur’s throat and shoulders, to his arms and again to his hands.

“This may sting a bit,” Arthur says, reaching for the salve and coating his fingertips in it. A smell like the forest pervades the air for a moment, herbs and oil sticking to Merlin’s senses as Arthur spreads it over the cut. Merlin flinches at the coolness and the brief burst of pain reigniting his arm. Arthur cringes but doesn’t pull his hand back. “Just give it a moment.”

As Arthur spreads more paste around the wound, the sting slowly fades into a cooler comfort. Merlin relaxes under Arthur’s touch, sighing as the red and raw skin welcomes the escape from pain. Arthur leaves a trail of calm in the places his fingers touch, a sensation like rain dancing against Merlin's skin. Merlin thinks again of the shapes Arthur had drawn on his hand, the signs with no sense or meaning. This is like that but more, like a muted fire sinking into Merlin's skin. It's not the paste that's distracting him from pain; it's Arthur.

When Arthur finally pulls away, it's with a slowness that almost has Merlin wondering if he feels the fire, too. All that’s left is a slight burn around the edges of the wound, though, Arthur's touch stealing away like a breath. Arthur wipes away the leftover paste, shutting the jar and setting it aside before looking at Merlin again. 

“Your wound is shallow enough that it may heal on its own, but if you fear infection, let Lancelot know. He knows where the supplies are and he’s better than I am at mending these things,” Arthur says, finally taking hold of a bandage. “Now, stay still. If I tie this wrong because of your fidgeting, you can use your own neckerchief next time.”

His eyes meet with Merlin’s, an easy teasing light in them that fades the second it appears. A sadness, instead, fills his face; it’s a sadness that echoes loosely in Merlin’s own chest, a sadness he fails to fully grasp and understand. All he knows is that it’s there and that, as Arthur makes quick work of wrapping the bandage around his shoulder, it hurts.

Eventually, the bandage is wrapped and kept in place. Eventually, they’re done.

But Arthur’s touch still sticks on Merlin’s skin.

It’s a different kind of quiet now, a quiet interrupted by little breaths and nothing more. Merlin watches Arthur but Arthur only watches the bandage, his hand still pressed against it.

“You could have stopped that man before he even had the chance to aim,” he says, each word chosen carefully and certainly. Merlin’s breath catches in his throat and Arthur looks up, his gaze narrowed as he looks into Merlin’s eyes. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

He’s not asking about physical force or power. He’s asking about something that clenches tight around Merlin’s heart, something that narrows the world down to just this room— to just him and Arthur and these words.

“I tried.” The curtains are drawn and the door is shut but Merlin still speaks with slow, soft words. “But it’s hard to use something you’re used to hiding. Using magic can be more of a risk than fighting without it.”

“And yet you still used it for me.”

Merlin thinks about tossing that man aside. Merlin thinks about saving him from an unknown killer in the woods.

But Arthur says the words with a knowing grin and Merlin has the strange sense that Arthur’s talking about so much more.

“Go home,” Arthur says, pulling back and stepping away from Merlin. “You don’t want your friends thinking you’ve been kidnapped by some stranger.”

Cautiously, Merlin reaches for Arthur’s wrist, his fingertips resting lightly over the pulse.

“I wouldn’t let them think that,” he says. 

When Arthur laughs, he’s sunlight.

And, Merlin thinks, perhaps he’s no stranger, at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long since my last update and I am so sorry! This chapter is a bit longer than I had planned, though, so hopefully that makes up for it? Either way, I'm going to try to be better at updating quickly but I can't promise anything. Hopefully I'll be able to get another one up in a few weeks. I am having a lot of fun with this fic and I am really excited for you all to see the rest of it! It can only get more exciting from here, haha. At least, that's the goal.
> 
> Anyway, huge shoutout to everyone commenting and leaving kudos or bookmarks!! I know this plot is kinda confusing so never hesitate to ask for clarifications for any plot point or detail that comes up. 
> 
> Also~ You can always message me on [Tumblr](https://hum-my-name.tumblr.com/) , [Twitter](https://twitter.com/so_spaced__out_) , or, hey, look at that, a [Livejournal](https://hum-my-name.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Finally, I signed up for the After Camlann Big Bang! So, that's quite a while off but watch this space for that :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the support and patience with this fic. It means so much to have a fandom that's so welcoming. I truly hope you enjoy the rest of this fic.


	5. And Two Blend Into One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short update but it's something so I hope you enjoy!!

It’s early— earlier than Merlin’s ever been here. Sunrise beams peek in through the windows with the most moderate of sighs, warming Merlin’s skin as he paces the halls. He’d passed by Lancelot with a smile as he’d walked in, grateful he hadn’t been asked about his presence. 

Merlin works on his tasks with a silence his throat begs to break in the shape of questions and demands. He aches to speak of last night— to anyone, with anyone, so long as someone’s listening to him ramble and rant. He needs to say the words in his head out loud— the words that mean feelings he didn’t know he could feel, the words that put a name to the way he looks at Arthur— because that’s the only way to know it’s real.

But Arthur’s in his room, asleep. Lancelot’s preparing for the day.

And, so, Merlin does his work. Cleaning rooms and washing clothes, never once wondering why it’s such a natural feeling to pull Arthur’s shirt through his fingers, checking the seams and stitches as if he’d ever known how to fix Arthur’s things.

An hour passes like this— silent, still. 

When the sun is more than an edge on the horizon, Merlin pauses and looks out the window. If he looks only at the trees, the forest and the sky behind it, that distant thing in his chest starts to tug. 

He doesn’t need to follow it to know it’s yearning for that unseen trail back to Camelot that Arthur had led him to before.

Merlin shuts his eyes before that headache can settle back behind his eyes, memories not his own and thoughts he never had. He tucks them away and finishes folding the last of Arthur’s things.

The laundry basket finally full, Merlin turns and wanders his way to Arthur’s room. Once, there was hesitation in his steps; now, though, he’s something steady. He’s sure.

Until he’s before Arthur’s door, a sort of quiet slipping out from under it. Then, he pauses. As if waiting for something. For permission or a sign he’s to go in, like he’s—

Like he’s a servant, a thought that presses into his mind like a searing kiss to his skull. Like it’s his first day on the job and, gods, Merlin can see so clearly how he’d stand in some blurred hallway, fidgeting with a platter of breakfast in his hands. And how he’d stand there as he stands now, wondering what Arthur’s doing on the other side, what Arthur’s thinking of him. 

For a moment, Merlin can’t breathe. For a moment, he’s not in a home outside his village but in some grander place, a palace that could swallow him whole if he’s not safe. He’s twitching, staring at a door like it will tell him whether to knock or not, whether the man— the stranger, the prince,  _ Arthur _ — is good or kind or as worthy of his loyalty as someone once told Merlin he could be. He’s gasping for air and stepping back because these are more than fantasies, more than images flashing through his mind— they’re bright and they’re burning and they bring him nearly to his knees, his vision dancing with black spots and someone saying his name and—

“Merlin?” Lancelot’s hands at his arms, bringing him back to his feet. Lancelot’s voice by his ear, drawing him from his own mind and to the safety of reality. “Merlin, come along. You look like you could use a walk. Leave the laundry here. Arthur won’t wake for a while.”

And what can Merlin do but agree? His lungs still won’t let him do more than struggle to regain the right way of breathing. His hands won’t do more than tremble.

Lancelot leads him from the door and Merlin follows, the daze in his head clearing with each step he takes.

“Arthur—” Merlin begins once they’ve turned a corner, once the door is gone.

Lancelot makes a soft sighing noise, shaking his head. “He just got to bed a few hours ago. I’m afraid he’s a bit sick.”

“No, I mean—” Merlin’s mouth dries. He swallows, tries again. “Lancelot, I feel like I remember him. Or, I guess, remember things about him.” They slow and then stop walking, Merlin pulling from Lancelot with a small shrug. He forces himself to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how that can be possible, but I know I feel it as strongly as I feel my own magic in my chest.”

Lancelot doesn’t answer right away. His gaze moves past Merlin, unfocused; for a second, he’s paler than Merlin’s ever seen him.

“It’s… It’s not for me to say,” Lancelot says, at last. “And, even then, I don’t fully understand it myself.”

“But you don’t think I’m crazy.” Merlin reaches for Lancelot’s wrist, holding tight.

Lancelot’s lips press together. His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly.

“All I know is that Arthur receives wounds without so much as leaving his bed. I know that he was coughing water from his lungs this morning but didn’t bat an eye,” Lancelot says, his voice low. “And I know that I’ve traveled enough to know a curse when I see it.”

“A curse,” Merlin repeats, skin growing cold at the word. “And he’s never told you anything about this?”

Lancelot’s lips quirk up into something that’s almost a smile, almost a sorry scowl.

“He’s looking for someone to free him from it,” he says. “He says that, once he truly finds the person he’s looking for, he’ll be free. They’ll be happy again.”

Lancelot turns to walk away again. Merlin tries to follow but his legs have grown weak again.

Arthur’s looking for someone to save him, to free him. Someone to protect him from scars that appear at night, wounds that bleed without a blade. Someone he’ll find, someone he’ll meet, someone to bring him the cheer he’s lost.

Someone, then, he’s yet to meet.

Merlin carries himself forward on limbs that have gone numb. Because, each day, he sees new scars on Arthur’s body. Each night, before he leaves, he hears new pains in Arthur’s breaths.

There has never been a moment where Merlin has seen Arthur as anything other than hurt— be it on his body or in his eyes.

Merlin follows Lancelot, and an unwelcome— unfair— feeling of rejection wraps around his ribs.

Arthur’s looking for someone to break his curse.

Merlin’s not the one to bring it to its end.

The thought stings more than he ever thought it might.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It doesn’t fade, but the hurt from Lancelot’s conversation dulls with time. He tells himself not to think about, that it’s not important— just like his role here. Someone to help with the chores so Arthur has more time to find his happy ending. 

Ignoring it isn’t an easy thing to do but, still, he tries.

It’s harder on days like this— tending to the garden, the wind a smooth sound through the leaves and branches of each plant. He tugs at weeds with greater ferocity than he needs, knowing he can use his magic without reproach but not daring to do so lest his emotions take it too far.

The sun’s barely peaked in the sky when he hears noise echoing over the gentle breeze, a sound like voices near the front door. A sound unlike either Lancelot’s or Arthur’s.

Knees dirty from bending in the garden, hands spotted with soil and dust, Merlin stands and follows the noise. Visions of assassins crash against his skull, each one deadlier than the last. A flash of a blade, a fist or arrow or something worse— and Merlin in the background, too late and too terrified to move.

He may not be the one meant to break Arthur’s curse but he can at least keep him safe until someone else does.

By the time he reaches the front, though, the only trouble he sees is Benjamin and his followers. The only blade he sees is Lancelot’s sword directed at the group.

Merlin freezes, pressed close to the house’s walls so not to be seen.

“Oh, come on,” Benjamin says, his nose and lips twisted into an ugly. “We’re his friends, right? Just wanted to come say hi.”

Ah, so they’re looking for him. Merlin can’t say he’s surprised. He’s actually rather flattered that their need to mess with him overpowers their fear of Arthur and his rumors. He’ll take the teasing if it will keep rotten gossip from spreading.

Lancelot, though, holds his sword steadily in his grip, and Merlin wonders what new rumors this will bring.

“I know what kind of ‘friends’ you believe you are,” Lancelot says, an even tone. “And you’d do well not to come here again.”

Benjamin seems to want to argue but he folds his arms across his chest, his eyes on the point of Lancelot’s blade as though it’s personally insulted him.

“You can’t threaten me,” he pouts, though he makes no move to defend himself. “I don’t know what the freak has told you, but we’ve done no wrong. Nothing more than a few jokes and—”

“And those will stop here.” Lancelot’s tone slips into something cooler than Merlin’s ever heard it, something that nearly covers him in chainmail and a cloak in Merlin’s eyes— noble and stern, something not to be questioned by someone like Benjamin or his friends. 

“What?” Benjamin’s incredulous, his cheeks spotting red and pink. “Listen here, you stranger and great big fool, I—”

“You will not speak to him,” Lancelot continues as though Benjamin hadn’t spoken. “You will not bother him. You will not so much as glance at him. So long as Merlin is employed by the master of this home, he is under our protection.” Lancelot pauses, tilting his blade until it’s level with Benjamin’s chest. “Do you find an issue with that?”

Of course, Benjamin sputters and goes red, his hands falling from his chest to wave uselessly through the air. It’s a difficult task, Merlin notices, as Lancelot’s blade hangs too close for comfort.

“I- You- He-  _ What?”  _ Benjamin glances back at his followers and then back at Lancelot. “I’m not afraid of you or whatever’s in that home, I—”

Merlin can’t see what Benjamin looks at as Benjamin’s eyes drift to a place over Lancelot’s shoulder. But he can see the way Benjamin stills, the way his words fall away— the way even the group behind him takes a step back as one, not daring to even whisper to one another as Lancelot steps aside. As the door opens enough for Merlin to hear its tell-tale creak.

“My man told you to go.” A familiar voice, soft and cold at once. “You’d do well not to disobey.”

Benjamin’s mouth slams shut, tightening into a line so thin his lips nearly disappear. His heated gaze and flushed cheeks are a look of humiliation Merlin’s only ever imagined seeing on him. 

Just like the defense from Lancelot and Arthur are words he’s only ever dreamed of hearing. Sure, he’s had Will, but Will was his friend. They’ve defended each other for years. Fighting bullies on the other’s behalf was practically second nature.

But for Lancelot to stand there with his sword and steady gaze, for Arthur to venture out of the safety of his hiding place— for either of them to declare Merlin as theirs to protect…

For a moment, Merlin forgets how to breathe. Something else fills the space in his chest where his air should go, something warm and overwhelming, something so strong he feels it may tear him apart.

It’s as he finally gasps that Lancelot turns, catching his eye once the other boys have gone. Merlin jerks back, expecting a scolding for sneaking around, but Lancelot simply smiles and walks his way. 

“Have you finished with the garden?” Lancelot asks. As if he hadn’t just played the part of Merlin’s savior, his defender. Merlin gapes.

“I, uh, I suppose. Yes. More or less,” he says. He’s not certain it’s the right answer but more important matters press into his mind, ringing as though he’d been knocked over the head with them. “You didn’t have to do that. With Benjamin, I mean.”

Lancelot shrugs with a small laugh.

“I would have done it anyway but, well,” he glances over his shoulder towards a figure Merlin hadn’t noticed following him, someone with golden hair and a pale blue cloak, “it wasn’t exactly my idea.”

When Lancelot walks past— presumably to check on the garden— Merlin’s just left with Arthur’s gaze on him. And Arthur looks the way Lancelot said he would— like someone who’d died the night before only to return gasping and shaking and weaker than before, his skin pale and eyes dark and hands barely forming fists at his side— but he also looks at Merlin with a fondness that Merlin can’t quite explain.

It’s a fondness that pairs with Lancelot’s parting words. It’s a fondness that matches the feeling that had filled Merlin’s chest mere moments ago.

When Arthur nears, he shakes his head and sighs.

“Don’t think you were meant to see that, Merlin,” he says. It’s in a teasing tone but his eyes are anything but. 

“Sorry,” Merlin says, though he doesn’t really mean it. “I can’t help but sneak around sometimes.”

“I’ve noticed.” And Arthur looks at him as though he  _ has  _ noticed, as though he’s seen more to Merlin than magic and secrets and a boy to pull his weeds. Arthur looks at him and Merlin has never felt more exposed. He opens his mouth to speak but Arthur beats him to it, suddenly blinking that look away. “So, to make sure you don’t get yourself into any more trouble, I should probably walk you home.”

Merlin barely understands the words at first. He thought that Arthur would tell him to get back to work, or that he’d turn away and go back to that time where they shared a space but never a friendship— that horrible time where Merlin had to steal glances of him through the corner of his eye, through the cracks in doors and windows, through the flimsiness of his own memory.

But, instead, Arthur nods towards the trail back home. And Merlin can’t help his smile.

“Afraid I’ll cause some mischief?” He asks, stumbling to Arthur’s side as they begin the walk back.

“You’re not clever enough for that,” Arthur jokes with an eye roll that Merlin can practically hear in his voice. “No, I want to make certain those boys understand how serious Lancelot’s words are.”

Merlin’s not sure how much of a threat Arthur can be in his state, limping and covering scars with oversized clothes, but he nods anyway, fighting to keep his smile from growing into a stupidly childish shape.

“As if I can’t take care of myself,” Merlin says. 

Arthur knows what he’s talking about. Of course he does.

“Oh, I know you can,” he says with a tone that’s almost cynical, as though there’s something more to this knowledge than he’s letting on, “but history has proven that you often  _ won’t _ . One day we’ll talk about your self-preservation instincts but, until that day comes, you’ll have to be content with letting me take care of you for once.”

There's a lot in that that doesn't make total sense until Merlin considers the night before— the arrow and the way his shoulder still stings if he moves a certain way. Arthur had hinted at these thoughts then; Merlin hadn’t realized how much he meant them.

“I suppose I can make do with that,” he says. Arthur laughs. It’s a nice sound.

“I should probably walk you home tomorrow, too, then,” Arthur says, his words mindfully chosen and placed, his gaze straight ahead as the village comes into sight. “Just in case.”

Just in case. It’s an excuse, Merlin knows, but he doesn’t want to call him on it just yet.

“Yeah, okay,” Merlin says. Arthur may be staring ahead but Merlin watches him until he’s sure Arthur can feel the weight of his gaze upon his face. “I think I can put up with that.”

Arthur’s smile is a slow stretch across his face— the sun pulling across the sky. It’s warmth sinks into Merlin’s chest, his heart and—

Oh.  _ Oh. _

That’s what that feeling was.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It becomes routine for them to walk back to the edges of town together. Arthur always has his excuses, his reasons; Merlin never calls him out on how increasingly ridiculous they are, almost afraid to lose the companionship he’s gained.

More than this, though, he’s almost afraid to lose the small glances from Arthur on the stroll back, Arthur always quick with his looks and as if he doesn’t know Merlin is staring right back.

As they walk, Arthur asks Merlin simple questions— how his chores are, how his mother is, who he considers friends and if he slept well the night before. He phrases them as though they’re tasks to check off on a list, his lips curling around Merlin’s name like he’s holding back a fonder tone.

When Merlin smiles one day and jokes about Arthur acting like a spoiled prat— tacking on a particularly cheeky “my lord” at the end— he says it not in spite of Arthur’s feigned indifference but, rather, because he knows Arthur just needs a reason to tease him back.

Arthur, though, simply pauses and stares at Merlin as though he’d gone insane. If not for the blush rising up in his cheeks, Arthur would almost seem angry.

“You really were just born to be horrifically disrespectful,” he mutters. 

It’s easy for Merlin to aim his next statement— a declaration that Arthur wouldn’t like him any other way— but he’s cut off by the sound of children playing knights and sorcerers in the woods, chasing each other with sticks and wooden swords— yelling about burning one another as though it’s a joke.

A game. A childish observation that, of course, sorcerers burn. Whether or not magic is illegal in Ealdor and the surrounding kingdom, Camelot’s reach has extended far enough. 

Merlin’s heart clenches in his chest. His thoughts still, the air suddenly thick around him. 

At his side, Arthur hesitates, too. His head tips ever so slightly to the side, listening.

“They’re just children joking around,” he says quietly. Merlin’s answering scoff is an ugly sound.

“Children who will grow up to believe the things they say now,” he says. “And that, Arthur, is why things won’t change.”

“And how would you have things change?” Arthur asks after a moment, his voice softer than before.

Merlin glances over at him. He isn’t entirely surprised by the gentleness in Arthur’s eyes but something in him lights up at it— something finds refuge in the tenderness there, curling up and basking in the warmth.

“I never want anyone else like me to wake up every morning and wonder whether the world is right about them being a monster.”

It’s an easy answer to say but it may as well be an impossible dream.

Arthur, pale from whatever wound ails him today, nods.

A moment passes. The children move on. The slightest breeze brushes Merlin’s cheeks.

And, then, Arthur reaches for his hand.

It’d be the right time for either of them to say something— for Arthur to whisper some profound promise of protection or for Merlin to take a stand against whatever hatred has taken root in this land. It’s the right time for golden eyes and gilded words, for magic and every oath tucked between.

But Merlin looks down at their hands. His words dry upon his tongue. If he speaks the things he feels blossoming in his heart, he fears he’ll lose it— no longer his to claim or control.

“You’re not a monster, Merlin,” Arthur says, rubbing the back of Merlin's hand with his thumb. “I never for a moment thought you were.”

Simple words. A simple action.

Still, as they walk back to the town— hand in hand, silent as the sky—, Merlin smiles so brightly his vision blurs. Arthur teases and asks what has him so happy so suddenly.

Merlin holds Arthur’s hand tighter, and magic sparks happily beneath the skin of his palm-- like this is where his touch and his magic were meant to be all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah, that was really short and I do apologize for taking so long with it!! The good news is that I have a good reason-- I'm taking part in the merlin big bang coming up in a couple of months and I really want my entry for that to be good so I've been focusing on that a bit more than anything else. Still, more Pendragon to come for sure! Thank you so much for sticking around and reading!! Please leave a comment with your thoughts!
> 
> Love ya!

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I got dragged straight into the Merlin fandom and now a full fic outline is sitting in my docs and I have nothing else to do with it. Anyway, please let me know if this is accepted by the fandom. I'd love to hear some thoughts!
> 
> Also, please come hang out with me on Tumblr! [My Tumblr is here so come say hi!](https://hum-my-name.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (Also, if you do like this fic so far, I made some posts on Tumblr about it, so please share those around! I'd be eternally grateful)


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